the bleeding heart

and i am a writer, writer of fictions …

it began inexplicably, the way most juvenile things begin.  by that i mean that the impetus was known but the reason was obfuscated.  i had not yet learned to use big words to obscure my explanations.

having no answers, then, i sought them earnestly.  my heart seemed to shatter with every question that loomed before me, enigmatic and cruel.  i felt a comedy turned tragic; by day i laughed and smiled blithely as usual, by night i ached and carefully, carelessly dampened my pillow with adolescent tears.  life continued on in this way until i lost track of time, tired of hiding from what i felt sure was your watchful eye.

i am the heart that you call home …

of course i wouldn’t, i couldn’t believe an outright lie.  i was trusting — some might say gullible — but i needed proof before i would adopt the suggested viewpoint.   and everywhere i looked you gave me confirmation, or i manufactured it from each word or glance you sent my way.  it was not the best of times.  i thought it could not get worse.  in my imagination there was a boy and a girl, a marriage and a house with a sky-high tree in the front yard.  so imagination, in a way, became reality.

and i’ve written pages upon pages …

you deserve both credit and innocent blame for what i am today.  your presence in my life, whether verity or blasphemy, awakened and inspired my muse.  for that i suppose i should be grateful, although i sometimes would that photographic plates had not to develop from negatives. 

after i inhale the substance that seems to sustain me these days i find in my mouth the memory of childhood’s uncles and the scent that clung to their clothes or their breath.  there are two burnt matchsticks at my elbow and i can’t remember what i used them for, or if you used them this morning while i was away.  i never know where you are or what you’re doing now.  sometimes i wonder if i any longer care.

trying to rid you from my bones …

i am filled with a mild curiousity as to what drove you to madness.  even as someone who perhaps once had a meager claim on some sliver of your heart, i do not want to pry into your affairs.  i do not want to unburden the darkest parts of my soul to you.  the golden rule is a two-way street if we are to delve into the particulars of the case.

yet i think of finding you in the gloom of the evening, lying cold on a porcelain bier.  there is a look of relief on that once-beautiful mask of yours.  i watch the red ribbons of your life curling their way toward the sea and wonder what finally shattered the glass castle.  there is a chance i would cry had my heart not died the first time around.  all i can do is hold your hand, finally, now that you put up no resistance.

and i am a writer, writer of fictions …

this is not how the story should end.


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