andcuriouser
Active Member
This could be awkwardly personal, but oh well. It had to be said.
?
At a time when I had so many questions you said, “don’t ask questions”, and I didn’t ask questions; I swallowed them up like the fourth pancake, so they stuck in my throat, but I got them down just fine without throwing up on your fine white carpet and I pressed my fine white hands together and—“repeat after me, darling”—I repeated after you: blessed is the man who doesn’t walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the way of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers—oh, stop!
Here is where we come to question one, with that image of your bloodiness and the sound of your psalms and the grass knifing against our legs. You tuck your black hair behind your ear and fix the fold of your dress, but the wind blows it back to the way it was. Here is question one, when you looked at me and we locked eyes for just a moment and that moment was enough for me to momentarily be hooked and you pulled me from the water—or the sky, depending on your point of view—tore a hole in my cheek, in my feet, and when I said it out loud you smiled and then you wept bitter salt tears and every time I made that face your heart felt that little bit warmer. I breathed on it with hot sticky breath and you held me close and then away, buried me in snow, left me there for hours and more, touched my temple and tensed your finger and said…nothing.
Question number two is more or less about anger, and you will find no question mark here because I am sure you can understand what the question is just from the tone of my voice. My murder story would be about you, and as much as I cringe at the idea of filicide, the whole damn thing seems so damn charming when the subject involves you. That novel would have some sort of cryptic and vaguely bloody excerpt on the back, but the rest would be a surprise because I’m not sure how I’d want that to end. You can’t pay in blood for what I’ve lost in years. Blood may be thicker than water, and when your water broke I guess you knew it already. You’d made up your mind before I even had a chance to breathe or prove you wrong. You. Did. Everything. For. Me. And it shows. While you are bent in prayer and the father of your children leaves you, I am arched with love and my skin is charged with static from the father of my future children, and it’s funny how these things work out. Dying alone is more frightening than whatever threat I posed to you. I hope you’re terrified.
I’d say question three, but I have no head for numbers or free thought. I don’t really have a question for you either, but I know what your intention was, and I need both hands to count the times you almost succeeded; maybe I need my toes as well because nobody knows how close we get sometimes to a brush with death. I know mine was there as it whispered to me, but every year I live is one less you have alive and I hope they let me scream at you then, or maybe you’ll be right and flames will come out instead. Even the good ones don’t go for that, and I guess I like a patient burning now and then: flat palm to face as we face to face off and you win by shedding less tears over the whole thing, and you dragged me to the fountain of youth when you found out what had come and gone from my mouth, my hands, my eager body to foil your plans, and no amount of chemical can sterilize me of that and you can scream all you need to, but no:
THERE IS NO WINNER HERE.
Question four: you say I am not happy and as much as I insist to the contrary, I am unhappy because you worked so hard for happiness and when I wander from your happiness I wander right into you and it’s hard to leave you behind. Blood can do that. Your blood is failing you, and you hit me for caring and you’re right. I shouldn’t care. When you die, I hope you are in that house alone. That could make me happier.
Well, maybe none of those were questions. I’m just so used to not having answers that I’ve become adept at managing with the declarations just fine. Well, this is my declaration of independence because I am quite tired of being entirely dependant on you.
?
At a time when I had so many questions you said, “don’t ask questions”, and I didn’t ask questions; I swallowed them up like the fourth pancake, so they stuck in my throat, but I got them down just fine without throwing up on your fine white carpet and I pressed my fine white hands together and—“repeat after me, darling”—I repeated after you: blessed is the man who doesn’t walk in the counsel of the wicked, nor stand in the way of sinners, nor sit in the seat of scoffers—oh, stop!
Here is where we come to question one, with that image of your bloodiness and the sound of your psalms and the grass knifing against our legs. You tuck your black hair behind your ear and fix the fold of your dress, but the wind blows it back to the way it was. Here is question one, when you looked at me and we locked eyes for just a moment and that moment was enough for me to momentarily be hooked and you pulled me from the water—or the sky, depending on your point of view—tore a hole in my cheek, in my feet, and when I said it out loud you smiled and then you wept bitter salt tears and every time I made that face your heart felt that little bit warmer. I breathed on it with hot sticky breath and you held me close and then away, buried me in snow, left me there for hours and more, touched my temple and tensed your finger and said…nothing.
Question number two is more or less about anger, and you will find no question mark here because I am sure you can understand what the question is just from the tone of my voice. My murder story would be about you, and as much as I cringe at the idea of filicide, the whole damn thing seems so damn charming when the subject involves you. That novel would have some sort of cryptic and vaguely bloody excerpt on the back, but the rest would be a surprise because I’m not sure how I’d want that to end. You can’t pay in blood for what I’ve lost in years. Blood may be thicker than water, and when your water broke I guess you knew it already. You’d made up your mind before I even had a chance to breathe or prove you wrong. You. Did. Everything. For. Me. And it shows. While you are bent in prayer and the father of your children leaves you, I am arched with love and my skin is charged with static from the father of my future children, and it’s funny how these things work out. Dying alone is more frightening than whatever threat I posed to you. I hope you’re terrified.
I’d say question three, but I have no head for numbers or free thought. I don’t really have a question for you either, but I know what your intention was, and I need both hands to count the times you almost succeeded; maybe I need my toes as well because nobody knows how close we get sometimes to a brush with death. I know mine was there as it whispered to me, but every year I live is one less you have alive and I hope they let me scream at you then, or maybe you’ll be right and flames will come out instead. Even the good ones don’t go for that, and I guess I like a patient burning now and then: flat palm to face as we face to face off and you win by shedding less tears over the whole thing, and you dragged me to the fountain of youth when you found out what had come and gone from my mouth, my hands, my eager body to foil your plans, and no amount of chemical can sterilize me of that and you can scream all you need to, but no:
THERE IS NO WINNER HERE.
Question four: you say I am not happy and as much as I insist to the contrary, I am unhappy because you worked so hard for happiness and when I wander from your happiness I wander right into you and it’s hard to leave you behind. Blood can do that. Your blood is failing you, and you hit me for caring and you’re right. I shouldn’t care. When you die, I hope you are in that house alone. That could make me happier.
Well, maybe none of those were questions. I’m just so used to not having answers that I’ve become adept at managing with the declarations just fine. Well, this is my declaration of independence because I am quite tired of being entirely dependant on you.
