I could write tonight.
In oceans depth and lovers breaths. I sit to write, tonight and suddenly I'm tensing up and tearing up and aching hard.
Suddenly I'm digging deep, my fingers drifting slowly over dusty connections to parts of me I've long neglected.
Suddenly I'm ripping out every strand and cord of mechanical, unfeeling, deadly lies that have wound and bound and coiled themselves through every part of me.
Suddenly I'm bleeding pure and clean, and suddenly I can breathe.
I'm breaking this art. I'm living this life, I'm dreaming these dreams I'm fighting this fight. I'm daring to go, I'm longing to rush, I'm bleeding here on this hardwood floor, every coil and cord and mechanical lie writhing, ugly, offensive, in hands of hope and life.
Convulsing I lie here naked and bare, I'm fighting this fight, I'm no longer there.
I'm standing, now, gaze locked on my gut. I'm open and bare, exposed. Detached.
That's not me. I'm not broken.
I reach down, confused, fingers sticky and slick with black sludge.
Could it be? Is this me? Is this beauty? These holes, these gaping holes.. these repulsive, bottomless gaping holes?
So I write. So I bleed. So I ache, and I snot and I cry and I scream. It's healing this art. It's healing me clean...
So tonight... I could write. so tonight I could write. sotonightIcouldwrite. I could write. I could write.