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[aa-poetry]

Sometimes, I try to force art to rise from my stomach and vomit out onto the ground, leaving watercolour stains and glitter stuck in the cracks. You made me do this today; you resided in there, dormant, peaceful, for a long time, and then you awoke with a start and clawed your way out, and I couldn't do anything but let you tear me open from the inside out and escape. You brought the ear splitting rumbles of an earthquake with you that threw me to the ground, teary face first, and left me there, shocked, frozen, confused. It all happened within a second and there was nothing I could do.

So I lay there, scratching at the dirt, trying to make sense of the last minute or so of my life, trying to find landscapes and constellations drawn in the granules of soil and dust, to no avail. I tried, desperately, to relive the moment you unleashed your wrath unto my body and translate it into something that could leave tears on the faces of a crowd. I couldn't find it, just like I couldn't find a parasite growing in me, waiting to leave me destroyed.

I couldn't express how much I wanted us to claim a corner of the universe and live in it together until our lungs gave way and we died in eachother's arms but you didn't. Or how I pretended that you did anyway, or that you'd come to your senses one day, even though you couldn't have made it clearer that you weren't going to be the one who'd love me like flowers love the rain. I couldn't sate my hunger for an explanation in the form of what people go to galleries to see, but I tried anyway, ignoring how the wound you left grew wider as I picked at it in search of metaphors and a reason to write them.

But I persisted, convinced that I'd become healed by the end of it, but even if I had finished I'd still be laying here, bleeding, sobbing, wallowing.

Though, if I bleed until I've no more blood to release, sob until my eyes go dry, wallow until my emotions are so frenzied they settle, maybe then I'll muster the strength to sit up and let my body refill with fresh blood, clean tears, and emotions that I'll allow to exist whether or not they fall upon a canvas and trace a masterpiece.

You'll still be there, somewhere; you've left scars that sting too much to seem like they'll fade, though it doesn't matter. Maybe I'll frame them one day and hang them over a mantlepiece anyway.

scratching at the dirt

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