The Unhealable Wound of Failed Loving
I’m angriest at my father for his inability to love me, his wife, his
children.
I’m terrified I am damned in his jeans, to walk forever that lonely
angry hallway
I papered a wall with faces of men that I loved
had to leave certain ones out
coz it’d hurt to much to look in his eyes
or feel him staring at me
I only got halfway through
and looked up at those men
and saw them all as people I’d failed to love,
Oh Look: some girls too
I’d tried
I couldn’t figure it out
the most recent scenarios aren’t even marked there
I had no expectations with them
though I know they were hurt
their own damn fault
I’m more annoyed at the memories than impained
but they still illustrate the hollow point:
I cannot love and be loved
left now, filled now, with voidy numbness, could be said
and I don’t feel I have the heart to try it again
that tedious story retold
I suspect I have to lose everything
or have it all taken from me
the last shreds of my heart
to empty me out
til I’m not eating or fucking or dreaming or hoping
til I’m just dead, living like the rest of us
(my imaginary companions… I wouldn’t call them friends)
when I’m truely alone
and my hands are no longer busy
will an angel come to do all the work for me?
brush my hair?
fill my lungs with air?
warm that hollow space inside me?
if all of my tasks are like this, yes?
impossible projects to complete
with maps, scraps, recordings and dictates strewn about
Everywhere
but locked from my doing by some indellible vice
or blindness
loving only distractions
some impossible riddle
so simple it has no words
thus out of my realm of understanding
until I vacate myself entirely
and let another control
will I then complete the mystery of my flesh?
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