gypsiejunkie
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2013
- Messages
- 119
the weight of it inside, like
lead. the silence
of every
summer since,
eternal. what is already
wasted is already
wasted.
there is no grey area
no shade
no shading in this kind of thing
at all.
it is just black
just white
and i just hate
the rigidity
of choosing.
it’s all true or false questions
yes or no answers
the finality that is
the end,
the ending that is
above all else
unwavering
unapologetic
and almost cartoonishly impersonal
like he used to have to handle me
(years before now)
but what happened
happened. and what happened
on july sixteenth, twenty-sixteen
felt to me
like an unbearably personal
intensely unfair
way to end a game of chess.
and all of it recounted
in low mahogany tones
spoken by unfamiliar voices
in a foreign tongue
a language i would insist
i did not need
to learn.
but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
by then
i was trapped
for a long time.
stuck in my grandmother’s
old phonograph.
deep inside
the huge black crackling speaker.
i was driven mad
by a loop of accusations
tortured by repitition-
to skip and
skip and
keep on skipping endlessly
and to wish more than
anything
they would let me forget.
not him,
everything.
to know
the things i had said
i could not take back.
to know that i
left unsaid
what i believed
i would forever have time
to say
before the sixteenth of july
i did not know,
i could not comprehend
that tomorrow just might
not be.
for me
for you
it just was
never to be
for him
now those definitions are
without meaning
those words are
without borders.
words that i could never give him
i only had them to keep.
words i had to eat
because i was starving
and if i was going to survive
i was going to have to live with it.
i owed him.
the very least i could do
was swallow bitter words
i was sorry i ever said.
swallow my own words-
refuse anything else.
lead. the silence
of every
summer since,
eternal. what is already
wasted is already
wasted.
there is no grey area
no shade
no shading in this kind of thing
at all.
it is just black
just white
and i just hate
the rigidity
of choosing.
it’s all true or false questions
yes or no answers
the finality that is
the end,
the ending that is
above all else
unwavering
unapologetic
and almost cartoonishly impersonal
like he used to have to handle me
(years before now)
but what happened
happened. and what happened
on july sixteenth, twenty-sixteen
felt to me
like an unbearably personal
intensely unfair
way to end a game of chess.
and all of it recounted
in low mahogany tones
spoken by unfamiliar voices
in a foreign tongue
a language i would insist
i did not need
to learn.
but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.
by then
i was trapped
for a long time.
stuck in my grandmother’s
old phonograph.
deep inside
the huge black crackling speaker.
i was driven mad
by a loop of accusations
tortured by repitition-
to skip and
skip and
keep on skipping endlessly
and to wish more than
anything
they would let me forget.
not him,
everything.
to know
the things i had said
i could not take back.
to know that i
left unsaid
what i believed
i would forever have time
to say
before the sixteenth of july
i did not know,
i could not comprehend
that tomorrow just might
not be.
for me
for you
it just was
never to be
for him
now those definitions are
without meaning
those words are
without borders.
words that i could never give him
i only had them to keep.
words i had to eat
because i was starving
and if i was going to survive
i was going to have to live with it.
i owed him.
the very least i could do
was swallow bitter words
i was sorry i ever said.
swallow my own words-
refuse anything else.
