None of this is comfortable.
Twenty-four years of therapy and several thousand disrobes and how many books and
judgements conclusions. Processes and approaches and angles of near-sighted reflections. A few couches but mostly upright. Some in-patient and group work and locked doors and removed laces. The lovers who tried to dissect me– the ones who could barely see in me.
Walk into a different circle. Notice how this makes you feel what do you feel.
Are you ready for the tingle? And can you handle the sting of prescriptions– not from pills or powders– but sight.
You will only notice something is changing when you make that when you make a change.
You may find seventeen lifetimes hidden in your one.
You may excrete several pounds of wishes that got lost in the mail or shopping mall fountains. Still wish.
You may drop out of weekends because your tears wash you away and you have no ores to paddle you through this.
You may need to sew a thread to someone else so they don’t move too far from you so they remain
because no one ever remains. You may just need to ask them to stay.
Feel around. There is curvature in this magic. There is a twist at the top and bottom and sides like the way a smile arches. Smiles are like magic. And smiles can be uncomfortable too.
In these twists, curvatures, in these in-betweens, seems and cervices, in this sheerness, through your thunders, I fall. Twice this week now, I am concaved.
And here I am with your words, tumbling me down a staircase of mutual admiration.