There is something quite special about the way the light hits chaos. It is five in the morning, after a particularly tumultuous evening. There. It is all fine. Nothing has been resolved, but there is promise of something better. A purpose. An answer. A new hope. Coats and gloves to protect me from a harsh Winter. It could last much longer than anticipated, so hold tight, hold something. The pianos are playing. No longer are they the most important musical instrument in the world. They aren’t even the nation’s favorite.
This little ray of light, it let’s me see things I need to, and things I would rather ignore. The heaviness will come once more, and will I attempt to end my life the way my mother tried? The way my sister tried? Will I be better than them in all the ways that are final? A grave, a coffin, a wake. Chasing things that run from me, I trip that way. There are no wings to fly, only rocks that break bones. Red in the Fall and whatever that means. I don’t know what that means, I know what that means.
I lied about Rick. I don’t want him. Tell him that. Someone must tell him.
A female customer told me I was beautiful, today. I want so much to believe her. And if there is any truth to that, for the world to know it.
I lied about Richard. Can someone tell him that? He wanders out, and is difficult to find, but found must he be. Do not tell him I have lost all grace and charm. Keep that like a secret that is always to be protected, even from itself.
Let me have cold castle walls, where moss grows thick, and perfumes the air with something beyond this life, that is painted familiar to fool the art lover. I wished one of those ridiculous wishes, that Percy Shelley would crawl into Rick’s mind. There, he would live, and all the things that make Rick turn away from me would die. I would not miss, nor would I mourn. But tell him still that I do not care. Tell him I dance in circles, not for him, but to impress time into slowing down enough for me to figure out my pain. I dance, not because I suffer, but because it is the only thing left to do. My feet moved on their own, confused by a complex sexuality.
Rick, Richard. His sexuality is tangled around my breasts, adding weight to them, so that they look bizarre. They are mosters on my chest, putting pressure on a heart already dealing with too much stress.
I used to sing words that were not my own, write words stolen from those I admired, but now there are experiences, blending into one, that demand to be told. Inside me, they become destructive. Memories do not die, they morph into weapons.
I am a maze to be traveled through. A maze with two ways out, to make it easy for the fool. Thoughts that make sense are never there when I need them. It’s as if they twist around each other on purpose. My youth does not excuse my stupidity. I watch things turn away from me in repulsion. Trees find new routes for their roots. Flowers wilt. This I have seen, if I have seen anything at all. I am blind.