On Her. On Me
Her skin is porcelain that cracks with her smiles and seems to set in place with her frowns.
And when her mouth opens, you can’t quite tell if what she’s saying belongs on her tongue or another’s.
It seems to spill out of her in the moments where your lips are only slightly parted, the seconds after you’ve exhaled her kiss.
You imagine that with every slight bite of her cheek, she presses her secrets into her own skin.
An indelible print of shame where no one will ever see it.
She spins faster than a potter’s wheel.
And with every pass she’s different.
Her eyes are a chess game three quarters through.
A stalemate pending.
She’s paradox in a bottle,
Sipping at Windex and surviving.
Her broken smile passes for some brilliant forgery in the circles she frequents.
Her words have the sharpness of a whip,
The sting of a broken cable.
She’s never subtle, but in a twist, I suddenly don’t seem to mind this harshness.
I suddenly don’t seem to mind anything.
For all the experiences I have gained.
All the pain downplayed to terse words in lonely corners.
Quite echoes reverb through marble memorials of things he could have done to save this,
Words she could have said to fix things.
I gained no great wisdom.
I’ve learned no greatly kept secret.
I go back to mistakes like a mistress.
I’m easy to like
Not possible to love.
Above is quoted an entry I wrote nearly four years ago.
Is it stupidity to consistently let history repeat itself?
Sometimes, in an effort to gain clarity-and maybe a little self understanding- I’ll read over some old journal entries.
It is obscene how often I’ll find an entry that seems to mirror situations and feelings that I am presently experiencing.
Life really is a cycle.