It came-- the year anniversary of my dichotomy. My fragmentation. My nuclear explosion.
I woke up with sobs welling upward, grasping my throat in their hot fingers. Nine a.m.; I was sleeping on that day. The fool I slept beside in that tent must have been especially high from his 6 a.m. methadone shot. An orange drink in a dixie cup.
But I am writing about MY yesterday, not last year's yesterday.
My yesteday, I woke up to ominous billowing sobs, but I also woke up beside a man. Not a fool; a wise lover. Instead of the drug-induced monologues about mystical messages from God and the cryptic stories of faceless dream girls thought up during hallucination-states, the wise lover is a man of few words when it comes to expressing verbally what love he feels for me.
Instead of torrents of confusing but urgent words-- I slowly unpeel my wise lover like a fruit one eats in a moment of solitary bliss. Each time a layer pulls back, the taste is sweeter. I am surprised. (Is there a word for "happily dumbfounded"?) I am so accustomed to fruits which are just barely edible on the outside; their insides full of rot and decay. I am so ACCUSTOMED to methodically desensitizing myself into states of denial; suspending disbelief when I don't want to see the ugliness of something that has wrapped itself so tightly around my spirit.
I woke up with sobs welling upward, grasping my throat in their hot fingers. Nine a.m.; I was sleeping on that day. The fool I slept beside in that tent must have been especially high from his 6 a.m. methadone shot. An orange drink in a dixie cup.
But I am writing about MY yesterday, not last year's yesterday.
My yesteday, I woke up to ominous billowing sobs, but I also woke up beside a man. Not a fool; a wise lover. Instead of the drug-induced monologues about mystical messages from God and the cryptic stories of faceless dream girls thought up during hallucination-states, the wise lover is a man of few words when it comes to expressing verbally what love he feels for me.
Instead of torrents of confusing but urgent words-- I slowly unpeel my wise lover like a fruit one eats in a moment of solitary bliss. Each time a layer pulls back, the taste is sweeter. I am surprised. (Is there a word for "happily dumbfounded"?) I am so accustomed to fruits which are just barely edible on the outside; their insides full of rot and decay. I am so ACCUSTOMED to methodically desensitizing myself into states of denial; suspending disbelief when I don't want to see the ugliness of something that has wrapped itself so tightly around my spirit.
