glossolalia

I will calmly state the facts. I scrawl a few notes: last week was uneasy, spilling at the throw. This will happen in periods of change. Sometimes taking notes and making lists is not enough. Sometimes there isn't enough ceiling to stare at, isn't enough story in the song. But it is another violence survived, another badge on my ward, iron feather. (and here the perilous point, where my mind stretches, abstracts, to other matters. I think of being alone. I think of smiling. I think of what I could do, but will not.)

But if I write about my life, then it is a journal entry I don't want to keep. I think that defines moving inwards, which I do—so the fear? I am not sure. It feels like announcing that, so loudly: I will not create. Only rest in stomachs.

I will always report the world felt, hold my forehead, where fire settles. Don't lose it yet—but Chelsea is the only one who can drive me outwards. My tenses forge—what sense! But, without, I try to take the colours of havoc, and stretch them out, nailed down—spider teeth—for they to show. In my head, the only point that matters is that all of this is just an introduction. I haven't moved to the end yet—told that—but, always seems to be so. The end for a fast mess. Even though I was careful to make notes, and structure lists. But I am keeping calm for now. Saturday allows me that much. ("you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness") I count cat hair, and see volcanos. Plasma reaching out across her, unaware. All the ghosts that she must see, and my expanding skin. Guard me, keep me, know me.

I will turn to demons, but what did I want to say? The problem is even though I am calm, and safe, in Saturday (the late hours, the bottom of cups, something pretty), I can no longer write. I have recorded this so many times now—the slipping tenses, hiding my eyes from yours, even here. If met, what for collapse, I remain forever afraid. My brain will not let me. I am not sad, but I cannot pen a single line, that would greet you calmly, the weather, (the broken backs of) sports. I cannot write in first person, or not with head up, eyes ahead—you, standing in the field. I will always be looking away, unable. He was sown strange. He was reaped with the walls coming down. Whole things thrashing their bones into one. Too sensitive to every soul, and word of oak.

Which would drive me to heat up, the crown of fire, electric divine, fucking violence of time. I would speak—a nonsense—and strung between worlds. Parts of books yet to be born, but teeth already pulled, shirt collars, and bullets across the sun. And, see, is that a colour? A thought? A pattern I am tracing—always tracing. I want sense. For I am happy, or in between. Passenger of light bulbs and heavy glow. The smell of pupils, that which sees the night. I speak of fucking eyes, the dark. I am getting somewhere here, with this, though I was retreating, the patron saint of—

I wish this writing had a colour to say I was happy, because i was. I was okay. But it's still a sale. I will always be this way—unable/possibility. Defined as a freak, and then an angry song gives me the taste of blood.