April 27, 2010

If they get married.

I will be okay, I will not open a wrist or become a junkie. My son will not be taken away from me because I have stopped giving him food and am having sex with truckers for vodka. I will not collapse in state of total and non-reversal mental breakdown. I might smoke a little more, eat a little less well and not sing too often. Until I remember something pretty that did not come from him. I will probably lie in bed a little stiller, a little longer another heterosexual celebrity couple. There is no need for the cynicism, what we had is too precious to undermine with hate. Let the love be, were are all human. And if losing him is what is takes for me to realise this then that is positive. But I'd like my promise back, scribbled but accurate and sane sometime around the mid 90's.

I will find a women who makes every cell in my body glow, find a therapist who heals the shattered mirror with dynamic theory and careful deliberate practice. He will parent and I will parent and not pretend or ignore his heat that travels across continents faster than it spreads round the room. I will not shut out the voice that narrates every quaint girlishness or psychopathic tendency with equal tenderness and protection.

I made a promise to the earth, the trees, the whales, the fleas and everything else that knows but never classifies that I'd leave it up to them. That as soon as my survival did not depend on it I would stop fighting and have faith and patience. I'd sown enough seeds across enough fields in all conditions something would take hold and I would have be ready. Anyway goodnight you useless prick, I will see you tonight.