Sunday 12/02/2007 12:45:00 AM

Counting the itches in her underwear she can calculate how much sex would be required to stifle her depression. Gain herself control anew. How slowly the flower dies after being plucked. The thumb of the clitoris writing stories in places no one can see. Touch like a stone sending ripples throughout so much stillness. The skin of the water cut. Letting everything in.

Counting her emails she can estimate the last time she had sex. And with reasonable accuracy if she ever will again.

Picking seashells. Eyes of ocean. Fingers of sand. Sorting fragments into reasonable bargains. She was ready to pick the apple, but it picked her instead. This garden is too small anyway. I'd rather be unhappy. I'd rather hate myself than them.

Counting the years between she brainstorms a new protagonist. All those other stories done with her. She searches her thoughts for fresh heroes and villains. Knowing every story requires both. And that sometimes they are the same person.

She asked him which he wanted to be. And he answered her.

I'd rather be the hero, but I can be the villain if that's what you want.

2 comments:
Alter Alcoholic Ego said...

His depression overflows into manic raves of what went wrong as a cover of blame,
He's just angry he never had the guts to pick her,
he's just angry about the darkness he sees instead,

Somewhere he sits imagining stillness,
but all he can seem to do is begin to feel,
Something he had never known how to do before,
It was easier to suppress it all,
to forget,
to not have to think about it,
now he can't stop,

She's glad she doesn't have sex with nasty men that prey on pleasure and taking from others,
she always was when she could escape,
but he forced her out in a world of predators,

He doesn't know what he hates,
he doesn't know what to hate,
he just wants to hate something,
it's easier that way,

He's too much of a coward to pick much of anything,
he imagines he could have,
he imagines he should have,
he knows all too well what he's thrown away,
and left to rot,

All is a story after all,
all heroes are villains,
all villains are heroes,
all stories originate in the mind,
not quite the same as when they land on paper,
or when they are actually acted out,
the mind is both the villain and the hero,

She told him to move,
he wouldn't,
he just kept still,
tormenting her,
she didn't care which way he went anymore,
she just wanted him to do something,
she was tired of his twisted mind playing with her,
he thought she was some kind of space in his mind that drove him into insanity,
he wanter her to be his animus,

She wanted a hero and evidently so did he,
they were just on two separate pages at all times,
so he stayed her villain,

He rarely answered her,
he'd rather silently follow her around,
and leave her with sickening images,
stalking her,
as he tried to satisfy her in absurd ways,
keeping the chapters going on for months and days,

So here she is waiting for the hero to come save her,
she is so tired and sick of villains,
she's sick of him as a villain,
he makes a much better hero,
well, he would if he could figure out how to be one.

ap said...

so did you write these prior or specifically for the comment?

eitehr way, your writings deserve their own venue - not hidden inside the comments sections here.

i appreciate it though. the expressions you've given in response to mine.



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