Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don’t.
I suspect the truth is that we are waiting, all of us, against insurmountable odds, for something extraordinary to happen to us.
Welcome to the beginning, the middle, and the end.
Welcome to 4 A.M.
Welcome to life.
When your head hits the pavement, it cracks the same as everybody else’s.
Your hands are bloodied and battered. There is a crimson trail leading down to the purled veins on your sallow wrists. You have never bothered to bandage the ivory knuckles that do the fighting for your you.
You think that people can’t hear you. You wonder if you can hear you. Maybe you are silenced. Maybe you are over. Maybe you are ebbing away from life in the most graceful way you can perceive.
You’ve learned how to count backwards. It gives you something to look forward to.
It’s always something about the fire that licks your ribs one by one,
Or the widowed beauty, Suicide, who comes to kick you over in her stilettoed black heels. She looks appalling. She looks alluring.
Maybe it’s something about the words that stuck to the back of your teeth the day you were tying the noose,
Or the way ice crushes under your palms as you unscrew the cap of a pill bottle.
I know what’s happened.
Your fear of the things that wake you up has grown stronger than your fear of insomnia.
In the bones, in the ribs, under the eyes, you feel the physical sadness. You find yourself washing it from behind your ears and digging it out from underneath your nails.
When your head hits the pavement, it cracks the same as everybody else’s, so all that leaves you to become is an obituary.
I don’t have the appropriate words…Still awed. This is great.