Osirius


and then i begin to forget myself. and it is good that i do so, for i am becoming trapped by the mirror every morning, seeing only the death mask, emotionless, frozen. and so i forget myself, fumbling my fingers against her passing breath, touching the space in my mind where she just spoke. is it wrong to speak of god as a woman? god is perhaps sexless, but i like to think of her as woman, as something beyond me that creates me, that i can press against and thrust against and beat against but only lose myself in. she accepts everything i do, even when i scream, even when i punch the walls, slam the doors, stare at myself in the mirror all day trying to scare myself. sometimes i try to kill her, stopping everything that tries to come out of my mind. but i think i love her, i think i do because then i forget myself again, and i find myself reaching out in the night to sing, i discover myself looking away from myself out the window at the street, listening to the night, listening to the night sing. and then maybe i slip out a few words, maybe i smile, maybe i look the same, but something’s come out of me, something’s changed. i figure that i must love her when i lose myself in dreams like this. i must be still alive.

if god is a woman, than i think that i’ve got a reason to believe.

but then i’ll remember myself, i look back, and i’ll catch my breath, my face setting into the lines where it’s been broken by time. what’s the next line?, i’ll think, where was the word that i’m looking for? my muscles snap like reeds in my ears. i look at myself, frozen as a rock in the mirror. when will it finish? i’ll think, when will it be complete?

she waits for me patiently, the night, singing, for me to fall asleep, for me to forget myself.
the sun rises and the garbage men wake me,
and i wonder
has this happened before?
why has this happened
before?

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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