Pulp

Fingertips pressed to temples, everything pulsates. Eyes left swollen and the final sob of the nights events linger in the back of the throat. Weak after dismembering pieces of my heart over.

There is a beat that the heart has chosen to dance in anatomical delight with, yet it walks out of rhythm, out and against you. What is the name of the disease that refuses to take the anticipated path, the path of safety, the path of security?

Perpetuating insanity by pursuing that which will ultimately lead to demise.

Masochist in the garden.

Self harm in thought, destruction in distraction.

Letters were written, songs sung, to denounce cynicism, in place would be eloquent hands that run through honey and drip with sweetness and love and love and love.

Later, drenched with sorrow and passion for there is no place to place the action behind the feeling.

Waiting.

Aching.

Reaching.

Infantile arms try to grasp at moments of sunlight that do not burn but warm, and pools of divine water that cool but not freeze, hands that hold but do not bind.

Was there ever such a thing I wonder.

The moon is shrinking and fattening at a rapid pace.

Feelings of her before inspired comfort, belonging, and the eternal tide with the beauty of woman.

Now I stare towards her shed and expanse and feel fear. Has it been so long that she is full and satiated again? What became of the time when she was starving?

Now it seems time is being wasted, the dread that this may perhaps last forever. I feel the impeccable desire to take courageous movement, to do anything, to scream and scream and scream.

The days are beginning to get darker, the air cooler in the evenings. These seasons never cease to amaze the myopic mind.

In the day I walk in the summer heat, Sun scorching me with impetus attachment.

In the night I walk in darkened breeze, towards destruction, unrealized desire and disdain.

These are not new revelations.

The underbelly of this animal is no longer revered by the same hands that now find nourishment in flesh.

It shall be left on it’s back, and it will there be set forth condemned and torn open by those that used it in unholy worship in days of old.

Desire, desire, desire.

Urgency, urgency, urgency.

Need, need, need.

Greedy favor after greedy favor.

Will these hands deny that there will never be enough blood? Will they hide from the real work that is to be done?

The work that which provides us with what it is to be alive, to be born over and over again in a single lifetime, the work that requires nothing but barely enough.

The sun sets on another day and I know tonight I will not sleep. I will not breathe the way lungs are meant to breathe. I will heave heavy breaths of dissatisfaction I allow no one else to purvey.

There is hesitation within the iris’ of Michael’s eyes, they are heavy with worry and fear and human denial. Why does he allow these things to torment him, still? Why will he not set forth and free that which needs to be released into the ether and whispered away?

I am sure he asks the same questions of me.

I wait into the late of the night, alone, unburdened to support anyone else, it is there I release the demons that hide under my tongue and in the hollows of my eyelids. I am indifferent of this, comforted and frightened by the acknowledgement of these things in coextensive feelings that do not incite blossoms of change.

Did you have this strange dream too? Where is the honey we were promised? I wish you were here.