These Still Places
<< 12:43 a.m. - Thursday, Jul. 20, 2006 >>
I write my body into existence every time I bother to put
pen to paper.
Hashed words and eraser marks
become my bruises, my scratches; my eventual scars.
Until I am this creature of constant pink tissue
Sometimes they show up when I�m not even looking,
When I haven�t written myself in months
they appear.

Shiny and red like the skin of a perfect apple,
But really, the skin is my own.
And rather than being soft to the touch it stings like countless sunburns.
I attempt to place a marker on each subtle shade,
map out these changes, and see how they connect to each other.
It is too much work.

It is too much self-analysis
When I feel like the state of self is on loose terms.
Because although these red shaded scars will tell you a story
It isn�t mine.
It�s not who I think I am.

At least, at least� I�ve gotten lost here.
I don�t know what my infrequent writing makes me.
I have little to get across these days,
What with the contents of my head being claimed by some metaphorical spoon called
�single.�

All the energy is sapped.
I don�t need to hear your story,
I don�t need to hear your name.
I just need some time away.