Tuesday, November 02, 2004

The picture has faded. The frame is cracked. He won't go get tape. When things are broken, isn't one supposed to try and fix them? One person cannot do all of the repairs. I am broken on the inside. Where is the glue that can put my pieces back together. I try to make progress and, just when I think I might be, I am slapped with the realization that I am failing. Failing not just in one aspect, but others too. Why should I try anymore? What am I going to get out of it in the long run? Quite possibly nothing or just more of the same. Do you even see me as your friend? It's where I want to be. In your life, in your head, in your heart. Is your heart empty? Do you know how to fill it? If one doesn't know how to fill one's heart, can one's heart be filled? Who am I? What am I to you? A place, an object, a thing, a person. Do I have a place in your life? By your side? In your head? In your heart? A heart (meataphorically) is not something that is limited. It can always be filled and it can always be hurt. There comes a time when they hurt takes over the filling capacity. The hurt breaks the heart and the filling of the heart starts to leak out through the cracks. I can feel the spill and it stings my raw wounds. I bleed for you. Oozing, festering, ever-widening sores. Do you have any ointment? A hug, a kiss, a kind word, a gesture, a smile, a band-aid. Do you have any tape? No, you do not even offer tape. Tape is a temporary solution until you can press gauze over the wound to stop the bleeding. You do not offer me any tape. I reach my hand out to you and you call me desperate. I am only searching for tape, not an instant-healing medication. Ambesol would be greatly appreciated, but numbing myself will not help this. You do not offer Ambesol. And, while I am grateful for your honesty, the sick part of me wishes for it. I don't want to feel. I don't want to be in your head, in your heart, by your side, in your life. I need to be there. I will cease to function if I am not in those places. Is there space for me there? You exist in the present and don't look back on the past. Do you remember when? Do you even care about back in tha day? Do you smile upon it's like that time we? At night, I lie awake to see my vision swimming with you you you you you fish. Can I be your seaweed? Your gravel? I could grovel. Would you care? Would that be desperate? Would you know what to say then? Fading from the light and not looking back. I look back to the cracked glass. I keep green lightbulbs in the hope that they will light one day. That was fun when. I could walk away. How would that leave me? A quivering broken irrepairable mess. Who would sweep that up? Would they use a broom or a vacuum? Would the dustpan go to the garbage? Picture frames mean something to me: stability. They hold their photos in their frames, never letting them fall out. They hold the photos together. We all have photos. What has become of this frame? Where is your glue? Do you even go in search of it? Do you even want to find it? Offer me ointment. Offer me tape. Offer me a band-aid. Could I turn you down if your hand was held out? Fuck, I don't know.
If you never offer anything, how will I know if you even care that the glass is cracked? I will have to walk away in search of a hospital to treat the bleeding heart. What sort of hospital will it be? Open arms, open heart, open legs, open mouth, open coffin. Open death.

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