The evil twin’s voice slithers on her belly between scenes of my mistakes, hissing, spit flying, as she points at my weaknesses with shining eyes. Meanwhile in another theatre of my brain,
feathers fall lazily in a white mist,
just peels of dried up fruit to the hurricane that’s fighting and frothing above them.
This is a scene of delusion, tell me children can you smell the fear? Can you taste the wrong in the bitter sweat forming on your upper lip? This is a scene of delusion, obtrusion, disgust and mistrust, tell me children can you smell the fear? Can you see how her eyes dart to and fro, how her head sways from side to side in the absence of music? Repeat after me children, this is your brain on drugs.
I am starting to see that there is no right time, no easy way, threre’s just jumping off or holding on. And it isn’t always pretty. When Rebecca swung off the ropeswing that fateful day over the Deschuetes the river, she didn’t let go. I can still see her body, small in a black bikini, floating in slo mo over the river and then the unrehearsed return, crashing into the trunk with a thud and then the silence that followed and how all the splashing and beer drinking came to a stop like the moment had been chopped off with scissors.
She was fine more or less, although a little paranoid later when it was getting dark and we hadn’t gotten back to the cars yet and she had to be at her night shift job supervising registered sex offenders by 9pm. Anyway. Jump off or hold on. Or worse yet, if you’re a sucker for action, jump off but don’t’ let go like Rebecca.
I am unemployed and in my safety zone. I am not under pressure and I like it that way. I could sit here all day if I wanted to. Trouble is, I could sit here my whole life. But who’s to say I have to always push myself, get uncomfortable just so I can resolve it and learn?
Fuck that dark hallway, I have miles of neon paint glowing in my mirrors,
I don’t need to ripen on my hands and knees.
There’s a perfect face on my ass, surgically cutting smiles into fingernails that smell like divorce.
Drink your clouds down you young piano, there’s a desert growing in my dream and we are getting skinny for the rain.
I pull out the emergency kit and put bandaids on the weeds, trying stomp out the yelling in barefoot voices.