Perish Into

Monday,
December 19, 2011

7:34 PM

Happenstance.

 

 

Why do I wield the
blade that cut me? As I grip it I feel the wound in memory. That pain then was
proof to be, evidence which trained my empathy.

 

I know how the
victim feels, when I, villainous, make trauma real, for what else are the bare
intentions of one who holds a knife, concise, trim, implement, simplifies the
medium, and makes little pieces out of bigger problems, cuts little hearts into
shadows of involvement.

 

On my knees I truly
prayed, and asked faggot god, to switch my soul with the little baby abortion
to be.

 

That the baby should
live my life, happy and absolved of sin in a body that his father gave to him.

 

While I would perish
into nothingness.

 

In a fever fantasy,
the deal was done, and we were crossed as one. The premature consciousness of
such small life was his, now occupied the flesh and frame of strength and speed
in magnitudes of factors exponentially.   

 

The young child
cried out in a man’s voice, I feel the weight of the world on my facial
features, I smile and lift up the earth. Exclamation!

 

The new soul free
from the pains that brought this body to this place and time, seized the reigns
and made my tired limbs surge with wild power.

 

While I now, crammed
into a ovary, half-dead, asleep, a coma thinks, stop, barely, wake, long
enough, to rumble, thoughts.

 

Waiting for the
vacuum tube, the relief I was waiting for, would come with no ulterior dread.
Just non-being, just, …

 

And then I’m taking
birth, from the womb that I conceived me in, the light is red, the doctors
hands, the ceiling white, that devils grin.

 

My childs eyes in my
old skull staring back at me to believe he had aborted the procedure, producing
me another life to live,  I a new born
air-sucking, infant.

 

He was a better man
than I.

 

And I will resent
him for it, until I outlive him and watch the life peel off of the calendar
page every year on the day he died, drinking whiskey and copulating recklessly,
I’d like to buy the next poor bastard a round of applause, so clap for damn
near anything, our fate is not worth mentioning.