I keep waiting for it to get better:
(I think of Noah's line, the one I have heard criticized for being too angsty:
you ask me to cheer up, why should cheer up? it might not ever get better)
still
pieces of you everywhere - in cities I have never seen you - in cities I never will
it's an equation my mind cannot compute, it does not equate:
the simplicity and incomprehensibility of the statement.
The reframing of the context, painful and irrevocable.
Sometimes I feel like throwing a carton of eggs at a wall
Sometimes the sadness feels like dragging a rough stone across my skin or
a thin shard of glass leaving lines like the splintering of something wrapped in plastic
(these are all mental exercises to occupy my mind, block out thoughts with sensory details)
The other day I fell to pieces. I was crying in a way I did not recognize.
Suddenly and bodily, in waves it overtook me: I painted, I shook,
I painted, I quaked. Longing for something, anything,
the cool touch of the paintbrush on my skin a metaphor made real,
I drew myself into a tree of leaves
(My sadness growing like a seed -
into something better).
