It’s In Between My Ears
- an excerpt/sneak-peak from my upcoming book Yet, I Remain-
Where do I start?
Where was it you left off?
When exactly did you decide that the sound of my voice is merely a mutable mouthful, assuming that I had already finished before I started?
When an ear, or eye is necessary-you find me.
When a hand or heart is warranted, you find me.
……And let’s admit it: you always know where to find me, despite my tendency to tenderly take time-out, as the seconds tick tick tick, like a bomb about to explode inside my own head.
This hermit hides to heal, but the explosions between my ears become echoed- the delayed redundancy drives me down. Do-excuse…..
My exaltations are misinterpreted and death threats bounce with a buoyant bliss from your lips like sweet Sakura blossoms tossed into the wind. (As if Death is something so easily sought. She hides inside our hearts, and to awaken her from slumber not a wise wish, when she is so insatiably hungry after hibernation.)
The question gets lost inside of a hundred different threads of thought that spring from monumental memories and manipulations that make me question the original momentum of your flippant fallacy, and attempts to masks the monster. in my own memento-mori I am that monster, and so I suppose you a mediocre monster….
….. but I have to remember that the House Of Mirrors is host to hauntings and hopes held in ransom. I wonder why I prefer this dynamic? Why do I feel as though I must hold all the cards when you are such a talented dealer of stacked decks?
Whispers wonder ‘will she ever…..?’ I know that the patience needed to wait for the orchid’s centennial bloom seems futile when you can, instead, berate the bloom for the pace by which she bleeds after being plucked from blossom?
My mind whizzes with timestreams and time stamped tremors, equations of life and longing, the rhythm and the melody, and each and every articulation of instance-in order to align the outcome with the intended intonations. Aligning time with tactile, life becomes the tattle tale that never seems to be ashamed of its unabashed uselessness.
Sadness seeps into the cracks between bats of eyelash, knowing that ‘somewhere out there’ is unreachable from over here, having been hollowed out so hard, that even the hyenas seem uninterested in hashing out who gets the heart.
Had you hesitated in heaving, I could have helped, could have pretended not to have heard. This is my only applicable gift- to gently let you off the hook, but you have implanted hooks just beneath my skin and your pulling on puppet strings pricks my skin as those snake-like daggers sneak closer to the surface and threaten to tear out all temptation to take you at face value.
I know you, monster.
You’re the same numb, but then- nimble in your knack to nonchalantly choke the choice out of your prey.
I know you, monster.
You’re the same sorry simpleton, but unyielding in your solicitations to seek, to shape, to shift.