"You're so thin. Skin and bones." He glanced down at the floor.
"And you're apparently fond of internal rhymes." Heehaw. I've always been awkward.
The invisible thing (or person or place?) on the floor sure held him captive. He remained silent, I remained as blank as a piece of dry white toast.
And finally an inhale that cut through the quiet like a butter knife.
"So."
"So!" I replied a little too quickly, a little too loudly.
"I think you need to see somebody."
I am fairly certain he meant a therapist, but I felt compelled to joke.
"See somebody? I see a lot of people. People need to start seeing me because--" Oh shit. Nothing clever is coming to mind. Come on, think think think-- do I go for shock value, sarcasm, or perhaps something high brow and punny?
I give up.
"Deeny, I'm serious."
Deeny, Deeny, quite so teeny, how does your appetite grow?
"Yeah, I know."
"I just think you need to treat yourself better."
Treat, trick or treat, costumes, what to wear, do I go for Sexy Skeleton or Zombie Karen Carpenter? Maybe I'll fake sick this year and skip the parties and slip on spooky flannel pajama pants and pass the time dining on sugar free mints and late night punchlines.
"...And you need to be mindful."
Somewhere out there, let's say on an island inhabited by turtles and ghosts, lies an active volcano full of everything everyone has ever tried to hide away under beds, feet, rugs, drugs, and holy behavior. And it's waiting and waiting and waiting and sometimes the earth just needs to bleed.
2 comments:
i love you, keep writing, and here is a poem for you by my latest crush tessa rumsey, because we both have june inside us:
(comment might wack the layout a bit so: http://www.epoetry.org/issues/spring01/text/poems/tr1.html)
June Inside You
Oh, how like a clock the lover lost its pale face and colored.
Numbers the longer you looked at it, until each phantom.
Tick of its innermost mechanism heralded possession.
And the mercurial sensation that something was slipping.
Away from you, until what once was your seduction device.
For measuring time had now become your myth: Abandonment.
To lead you, said the clock, said the lover, we must leave you.
And when there was no hope, when the wild horse watched you.
From the death field, you stood, frozen and alone, the black.
Willows ticking, this is your failure. Stop. This is your blossoming.
Wow, that is a great poem. Thanks for sharing, Brinley/fellow Gemini. You make me happy.
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