The words I speak, the searching glances - all for nothing. No one listens. No one bends close to me. It should probably depress me, but it doesn't, not really. I've gotten used to this kind of thing.
"Move over, Fremlin, and let the dog lie in the sun," they say. I oblige because I always oblige. A domesticated feline if ever there was one.
Maybe there's a part of me that whispers back at the dark shapes forming around me.
Maybe I want more than I let myself know.
Would MR throw open the door for me as she does Alfie if I could better enumerate my despair? A list of loss:
1) I am old and no one remembers to touch me.
2) They-that-would-ignore-me make mock of me if I ever so much as gesture toward them.
3) Food tastes of laminate and nothing else.
4) The walls of this house, seemingly more a prison with every sunrise, press in against me.
5) My face forgettable; lamentable the hours I've spent mirror-staring, hoping to glean from my reflection some refraction of worth.
And if she did the door open, would I have the courage to walk Outside?
Am I to old to experience these emotions? Do I summon them; sorcerer-cat dictating desire to writhe forth from the mire-that-is-my-truest-heart?
how can anyone
knowing the cool of raindrop
seek out that which burns
and burns through single leaf note
book words edged to ash struggle
form flowers of ash
form snowflakes of white-as-death
that whirl as they fall
That mirror will never shine back to me beauty. In it I will never glimpse love. But I keep looking, searching. I keep dreaming myself into stories where I don't belong.
Would that I could quit this. Lie on the couch. Struggle with dreams. Lean my face into MR's palm. Would I were calmer, even-tempered, easy with confinement.
And I am sometimes. I know this.
But stormy days such as these move me, lightning-strike into my breast a fire.
A fire that will not be slaked.