February 20, 2012

Say Something...

February more than half way gone. I smoke far too much and do by best to ride the waves of fucking memory and relief its over. Trying to believe March will be better, there will be snow drops and daffodils, more light and the endless fucking anniversaries. Today the killed your saviour, yesterday they ate your baby, tomorrow your mother will shit on you. Not that I see much but the 'I love yous', hear the crying and feel the nausea, the shadows over the brain, the opportunities cut of and the high walls between me and creativity. But he ate well, we laughed today, got new shoes, a new book and me mocha, he spoon fed me the foam from the top. Maybe I have no right to complain but I will, at the bank I forgot about him but he noticed, in the morning I couldn't keep my eyes open and after tea, mince tatties and orange squash I wanted to throw up, such Scottish meals never sit well. I remember arguing with David the male voice from the corner of my mouth how it made a lover weep. I made jokes about Psycho. Reaching out can be dangerous, who wants to know? That average people were the worst the easiest to manipulate, the quickest to adapt, the slickest at switching from sex offender to PTA mom in the blink of an eye. It's only me I don't count, its what I'm for after all. The others got their other lives, to keep the cash, to socialise, to work and all else that seeing has turned to lies and self abuse. I got to know, the accounts, the power struggles, the connections, like a big conscious web across the planet the grew new roots where ever there was hope or healing. Inside I feel them shifting, roused by the reading and the life lines in 120 characters or less. Still I can't go back to Izzy's where the walls rippled with laughter and mocking a girl that looked like me but better dressed, better spoken flits up and down the corridors, taking a sledge hammer to every fragile link between me and another world, we will always get there before you, she had said. But she's dead now and I mourn her spirit and what she could of been I rejoice that she and her kin will never lay hands on me and mine again, to steal from my mind or womb. 'Watch your hands' they shouted in unison standing at the bar in the shitty incestuous coke covered village as I went out the back to make a point making the best of meth that was forced into my lungs. Why? My hands are no use to them now, I'd rather cut them of than make them another penny. No you wouldn't. Enemies within mean enemies on the outside have nothing to fear. Give me the drugs, give me the shrinks, give me the labels, take the food from my son and the clothes from our backs, make mistakes just don't leave me with them.

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