Failure. Cummulative. Ontological. The details don’t matter. Only this matters. Failure traps my wrists in its cold hands and breathes ice into my mouth. My veins go numb, the blood sluggish. My eyes have fogged over. I am barely here. Then the slow glow of anger catches in my throat. The air vibrates. Imagine your lover brushing his lips across the skin of your inner arm, how it focuses your attention. I feel weak and urgent, the way you feel when you want to be kissed. I am in dissaray, my pulse struggling to find its voice. I have gripped rage hard and his response is swift. The flesh yields to the thin steel blade, and for a moment I’m giddy with relief and the sting of honest pain.
I like this very much
ReplyDeleteyour word verification word is:screwlju...I like that word
failure paralyzes me...but somehow, someway, I have to believe that God helps us restore wholeness even in the face of profound failure. ((Badalice))
ReplyDeleteyou write with a beauty that sets of tiny explosions inside me. I recall the pearls of blood so vividly, and find my hand reaching to my arm as i read. I sink for a moment into your words, before returning to my own darkness.
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