There's no use in alluding anymore. This world wants names, wants facts wants intricate details--its not enough to blanket experiences under the guise of the storyteller and the stories he told. No longer can I moonlight simultaneously as the teller, the doer and the ones it was done too. Perhaps the point has been reached where I either develop an alter-ego or pour out this heart into cookie shaped pieces of life; each one fashioned into a poem. Each one baring just a little too much.
Or so that's what she told me.
I play safe. I will admit. Because its a little too scary to tell you exactly what I mean. Isn't it easier to give you an opportunity to think...of what I'm trying to say without blitzkrieg-ing you with answers.
What ever happened to mystery? I wonder..apparently it doesn't fare so well in words.
The world wants names. Wants facts--and what if I don't know how to give those? What if those names and facts--changed as they might be--don't want to be given?
What if the world isn't ready for the things I have to say; the things that will undoubtedly, eventually come to the surface--
despite all the fight that's left
in me.
Raw words don't want to be read. We want to be buried under molehills of imagery--of nothing.
We want to suffocate just so you can pretend that nothing. Really. Happened.
Raw words want to dilute themselves with baking soda and trips to the pharmacy; to wash off the filth that shows them for what they really are.
Raw words...like carrots in a vegetable patch. They are what they are, nobody would dare to question that. Nobody, though, would eat them either.
There is a battle coming on. It looms closer every time I pick up a pen, and fades a little when I refuse to write the words that wander through my mind.
The battle will rage and in the end one side will die;
my pen will be silent, or I will.

I've done you. I could say--I've seen what you have to offer.

And that would be all. Because to her it would sound so final--there's nothing like words to slash you so violently and leave so little behind. Words whip--

not cream. But flesh. Flesh you can't see until you close your eyes at night and try too hard to fall asleep. Flesh that reverberates in your dreams and claws its way into your nightmares.

But save that for another day. Because it wasn't what--

he meant to say.

He meant to choose a little more carefully. He meant to tell her he wanted to care..

but she forgot to tell him she didn't.

There wasn't any use in denying it. Like the storyteller who forgot to warn the man who lost his soul, she'd sat there with a smile and pretended there wasn't anything to forewarn--

about.

Ten days and two tickets to Paris--she'd watched as it all fell so smoothly around her...everything was smooth indeed. Save. For. Her.

I've done you, I could say. I've seen what you have to offer.

He repeated himself, then he crawled out of bed with a smile and went to fetch--

a glass of water.

Would you believe me if I told you these wings won't make you fly?
Where am I? I have to know. Is it far away in some other lifetime? Am I existing somewhere else too? It would make sense, I believe. I feel these things are happening to me but nobody here is responsible. Experiences and lessons--new ideas form behind my facade but I can't discover where they have come from. They appear from nothing and give me no answers--seemingly sporadic yet tied to some archaic source. Existentialism doesn't even know where to start, and neither do I.

I feel her blink and my eyes shut for a second.
I feel her breath enter my chest and leave--I swear I didn't open my mouth.
I feel her claws grasp on a memory as she struggles
not to let it go--
but I don't know what she's thinking.
Her thoughts flicker and I can feel her emotion--
her reactions to what ever they told her that she'd forgotten.
I know she exists,
but I've never seen her before.
She walks down gravel paths,
kicking pebbles before they fall under her toes.
She likes the sun--
a little too much.
She reads from time to time..
I think she's smarter than me.
But I wouldn't know,
we've never met.
I know she knows I'm here.
I know she feels my pain
when the world fades back to black.
She whispers to me sometimes but her words get lost on the journey--
from thousands of worlds away.

We are one in the same--
her name is mine as well.
The name of millions of miles of separation,
but not a particle of difference.
Two souls born from the same star--
we split just once
and landed infinite planets apart.
Her world is not my own,
and yet I know her inside and out.
In the mirror every morning
her face looks me in the eye.
She sees my breasts when she undresses at night.

It is only our own memories--
the ones we've made since we fell from from the sky--
that wrench us apart and define us.
Memories of places the other would never recognise--
memories of people the other wouldn't know.
Memories of ourselves that don't match,
like we do.
We carve our own and in this we are inherently separate.
Two beings cut from the same stitch in time--
dispersed like sand scatters in a storm.
We exist in our entirety
exempt from the pain of knowing another
so similar.
We exist in different spaces--
allow time to pull apart two pieces
that once were intertwined.

....Spell-binding....

Creativity return--
Seep back into my fingers,
Run hot whispers up my veins;
Pull tendons into shapes--
Make them write your different names.

--My anchor in the deep keeps me still amongst the swells,
If the chain were to break--
I'd drift and sink below to hell...

There isn't a second in time that passes without thought. The mind is never still--if it were a person, we might call it a fidget. It's not, though. It's a wheel that rolls over continents in a day, circles the globe many times in a lifetime.
The mind is your weapon. Bare it with grace, nurture with care. Acknowledge that some will misuse it, make sure you aren't one of them. Don't be fooled by tricks of the imagination--your mind gets bored too, every once in a while.

Every once, in a while.