None so softly

Some people binge-eat when they take lunesta or ambien.  I do other things, like write.

I wrote this last night, or this early morning, and I do not remember it at all.  I've read through it and will share it here, but it makes me quite sad.  It's as if this shadow part of me emerges only when it can or I will let it, and only if I don't know what it's saying.

I wonder who this me is that writes these things of me.

***

Late nights like this wonderful night, lights kicking off everywhere.  Where nothing makes any sense at all. Not my life. Not my short life, and let us face it.

I watched certain city lights, always on, bears leaning against buildings while aliens danced for no good reason at all. Always something was moving along.

Or always moving something along, on, on, this life. Leaves. Cemeteries, they grew. Loves, they left, on adventures to nowhere, climbing to feel something and go on, feel what you need and then get back to feeling nothing at all, like you always did.

And, alone as ever, lights kicking, maybe we can all be little girls.
Maybe I was never a little girl.

He’d come of course, he told me to my face that he would never leave, he had never been the sort of man to just go. The men that leave are the bad ones.  He was a strong one.  He made these promises.

All of this matters to me. Pinpoints. Angel wings. Pixelations. I watch.

And like this night, the same knifing light tells older stories still. Ties that died, times I tried so hard to live like they told me to live. I remember the glorious time of dying, my liver and heart failing, the consummate lost soul of the ICU.  An already-ghost unaware of my already-death, some tube thrust down my nose into my stomach while I wept, because of course it went all the way down.

Shove it all the way down, then kill me. I was gone already.

Make me not care anymore. Make me not care just like you do not care, shove it down and I will take it.  Go on, make me cry, I'm pretty when I cry, you like it.  Make me never forget what you never wanted to remember, that I was alone in all of this from the start. Alive to die, dead already.

There are glowing things in this life, insanely bright things that can fill us, they light up in moments. They shine with gemstone luminescence, into every perfect part of us, for we are never alone.

Into skies point telescopes, gauge and place and determine right angles. Yet with this glowing girl, she will shine anyway, having only ever smiled (for she willed it): so white, so bright, ah such a good wife.  All energy pours out, given over to vast incisions: I watch you destroy many things. These things killed my father.

You took your knife, you took the shitty pieces out, all the cancers. Sliced and sutured, anything unnecessary thrown away. But there was still me, right? With so many parts gone already though, sliced out and eaten right up, I guess it makes sense that I would go too.

"Breathe within it and think of something nice,” he said, like he was the him I had needed him to be, for what better time should he show up for me? There was no better time!

To champion even one thing on my behalf.  I wanted him so much. I wanted him to care for me more than he cared about ... anything. Maybe when I died he did, or would when I do, but these are things I will never know.

And I did die. I am dead there still, a little bit, because I have no wings. I can only be given these wings in the right order of things.

Pardon me, I blame no one. So many little boxes with me; Crystal will die every day in every way.

But I am here.