3 am – 6 am.

Belligerent cries for help.

Acceptance of fatality as a mirror to life.

Trying to outlive myself.

A desire to rupture – to the point of rebirth.

Hysterical Blindness.

Evading fortitude.

Contemplating a seaside burial.

Still in the embrace of a thoroughly white dawn.

Still tasting arctic snowflakes.

Last hour’s first crime.

12 blades. Just takes one, though. If you do it right.

Just a small winter grave in New York’s mind. Give me my dream.

Multiple wounds right to the center of an open heart.

Corporeal pain transforms into a sobbing, itinerant bastard child. Noone wants to own this and ignoring it makes it bigger and louder. Go away but stay.

Talking scabs.

Sitting on top of a steroid riddled hurricane.

Public display of a very personal death.

A fading visage.

To the effortless strands of Joshua Redman’s Soul Dance.

Dad, if I ever wished for that very demure mutual silence breathing softly amidst you and I, this is the moment.

I wish you could walk me out of this. Coz, with or without the muscular sarcoma and the ruby red rawness of my hurt, my legs just fail me ever so often.

“I know words fail you..
…And I know that sometimes, I do too…”


~ by iconoplastic on May 16, 2007.

2 Responses to “Walking”

  1. That song is talking to you.

    “It wasn’t worth the pain my death would have caused.”

    I wish I was with you last night. I really do. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must ‘ve felt like. However, it’s over now so chin up missy…
    Smile for us now!

  2. The heart breaks into a million pieces for you at times.
    Call. Soon.

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