Ceremony and Sere
It's a lot of things, but it's not bad. My life, that is. I have to remember that when my nail gets ripped off below the quick, pun not intended, when I'm trying to tie balloons for a bunch of admittedly very grateful but still very yuppie children. It was ouchie to the supra-max. But I didn't cry, I guess that's supposed to mean something, but it doesn't really. If something hurts you, I think, despite all the grotesquely heavy social mores...you should cry. Don't let those tear ducts heal over and have your eyeballs bulge out behind all those tears. I don't think that could ever happen to me. I cry for the criers, the martyrs, the saints, the inexplicably bad spellers. I've cried for you sometime in your short life, I'm sure.
It's the same as stretching out my mouth as wide as I can...not in an exercise against lockjaw for you dirty-minded citizens of the world...but as a defense against the fear that like a forgotten pierced ear, a mouth unused could begin to grow together at the edges. That if you didn't, every once in a great while, scream like a banshee out of the abyss that lives between your lips, you could wake up one morning having to use some kind of surgical scalpel to get use of your mouth back.
Anyway. Distractions seem to be the order of the day, and the orgy of my life. I fell a bit off the wagon but we can't dare tell anyone at all otherwise all their comments will dissipate...hot soapy bubbles caught in a hug. Then, I am disappointment, then I am the same, then I am their hope burst. And I was so angry after it happened...after I chose to allow it to happen. I was so mad at myself that I couldn't be stronger, that I could justify any choice I could ever make...that I could do evil things if I felt they were necessary at the nanosecond I put them on the scales.
So, I want to be ceremony and sere tonight. I want to purify again. I wish I wouldn't keep the poison, the pollutants so near.
I want to be so much good, but it's a running joke that I can't find it...I can't rise above these patterns.
Did you ever wish you had a fire burning a little hole in your belly, driving you? Did you ever wish that the thing that made you bend was something to be idolized, was beautiful? A passionate plea to be freed from the ugly master, fat and clapping cakes between his fists and to be put in the chains of the porcelain mistress. She, with spurs on her heels, wants to run into the gift and be the mist that makes it beautiful.
I don't want to never have courage.
I don't want to have to keep calling Poison Control.
May we wash our feet tonight?
