Posted by Marla | Filed under Uncategorized
Ah yes, Her friends, the words, glistening gliding over everything, making her feel rhythmic and one.
(Like when she is with him.)
She hears them whispering behind her back all the time, the good words and the bad words. How was she ever to decipher between them? But even more importantly, she wondered, are they mine or am I simply speaking for them?
Warning, warning, danger, danger. Keep away from those thoughts. Do not even dare to go in that direction. KEEP AWAY FROM THOSE THOUGHTS (megaphone)
John, it’s like this, the words hold on to me and boss me around — we use each other, they need me to get them heard and I them to make me separate, calm—an opiate—they seep in to the cracks and fill the unevenness—and yet the words are not me (either is he) they squirm around and try to free themselves from my grip, they play games, offering themselves and then running away, “he he peek-a-boo” and at other times they take my hand and force it to move—but mostly John, they seduce. They seduce me into using them, they lull and caress, promising me peace, catharsis, if I would simply listen to them and do what it was they told me to do.
Expressing need/asking for something, those are toughies John. I’m afraid if I do I’ll turn them off. I’ll be rejected. Told no. So instead I wait. I wait for them to offer themselves . But even then many times, most of the times I say no. NO, I WILL NOT DO IT. All those other things, the minute of my day, get in the way and so I have to sadly turn them away. That’s a lie John. I run from them with excuses. I just don’t want the responsibility. These are the words I’m talking about John, the words.
I’m in love with my poem, (The thoughts attack me leaving a dust trail of lust in its wake, I shiver and I shake, And after it’s all written and done, I’m still alone, But not quite as lonely)
Funny, how it all comes down to a bunch of words, isn’t it? That’s all it is, John, a big bunch of words. Day Oh, Day Oh (daylight come and me wanna go home) –– yes, it’s all a bunch of words and sometimes these words actually happen to you.
Still, it doesn’t answer her main question, why they, the words cling to her the way they do. Why they keep moving in a tight little ball, going through her life right alongside of her? Constantly tapping her on the shoulder? Refusing to let her relax
She knew she could not rid herself of the words just the same way she knew she could not could rid herself of her love for him. How many times had she tried to erase, delete, ignore them – shove them into a drawer or a file on her desktop hoping no would find them and then 2 weeks or 2 years later, she’d go back to them – to see if they still felt right.
They almost always do John.
So, John I will leave them, my love, the words, where they belong, inside the brackets. I will pretend they do not exist. I will pretend that they are not there, I will pretend that I don’t hear them, that they do not speak to me.. I mean how ridiculous —
But I confess John. I do hear them. All the time. Don’t you?