Tuesday, 3 April 2007

Base jumper.

Jacob has done it and so this can be for him.

    Put me somewhere I don't wanna be.
    Seeing someplace I don't wanna see.
    Never wanna see that place again.

    Saw that gap again today
    As you were begging me to stay.
    Managed to push myself away,
    And you, as well.

    If, when I say I may fade like a sigh if I stay,
    You minimize my movement anyway,
    I must persuade you another way.
    There's no love in fear.

    Staring down the hole again.
    Hands upon my back again.
    Survival is my only friend.
    Terrified of what may come.

    Remember I will always love you,
    Even as I claw your fucking throat away.
    But it will end no other way.

Petulance achieved today in self-destructive historically significant songs in my personal soundtrack.

Pay me no mind, it's proven to be a tough morning from the get-go. And I'm mad at myself for talking about shoes and books and inside jokes and home renovations here when I want to talk about things that are going on in my head and in my heart and sometimes on my flesh itself and instead I distract you with my cuteness, as Jacob calls it. It's the ugliest cuteness ever, if that's true, because it's a dangerous space for me to occupy, a hazardous cliff on which I stand, directly at the edge, to the point where your audible sharp intake of breath exposes your own fear at how close I really am.

But your eyes wear the colors of rationality and calm, and you rightly begin to speak in soothing, relaxed tones, words of warmth and remembrance, memories and promises of good, light and gentle, oh so gentle admonitions, almost canonical and comical at once in their desperation to reclaim my soul.

It's not failing, you just don't understand. There is a point to which I will come away from the edge, a line drawn that I don't seem to have permission to cross, and then when you aren't looking, when you aren't paying attention, I cross my fingers behind my back and take three very big steps back, sometimes landing on an unsure footing that puts my own heart in my throat and gives me a tiny thrill of anticipation at what it will feel like to fly, but the fear is greater and I grab the strong hands that reach out almost too late but not quite.

This is as beautiful and as fucked up as I am ever going to be. This is as good as things ever will be for me, and I'm okay with that.

Just don't take away the memories I have made away from the edge. And don't look too closely, for if you do you'll see I don't have a parachute.