Part V

herself. destroyer kali multiarmed and vociferous. swaddled victim metalloid and chopped. her horus lost to the void of the nameless past. disembodied, frozen. i will resurrect him. the father so-called creator. he must face up to the reality of his dream. trying to sleep away his discontent with the flagon of the spirits. i have come to wake you. you lose your sense of direction and it’s only a matter of time, time, time before you get pulled under, crash into yourself cast off into someone else, confronted by buried feeling, by everything you’ve drawn apart from yourself and flushed, dripping, ignored, cut by your own mind. my image made in you. your rib i broke throwing the brick. the child you sacrificed to your fantasies. self-defense. self-defense. i’ve moved past myself now, coming back to you. i am reaction, i am reflection, i am the light meeting the absence of your gaze. we will meet again. yourself gathered against you. the rain greeting my eyes loosened to eternal night.
she steps forward, onto the curb, unlatching the gate and swinging it forward with her foot. the sound of rain breaking puddled into the concrete. the freeway rush waterfalling down past locust ave. she crouches and looks in the cactus pot. no, it’s gone. it’s all right, she thought about this. unwrapping the screwdriver and hammer from her purse.
breaking the lock with a swift knock to the screwdriver’s head. cheap. stepping past the door into the stale air of the room, the lamp with the yellowing shade, the crusted rug, the twin cracks in the ceiling running across each other like lightening captured in the plaster. white. the jimi hendrix poster. a framed art deco landscape as concession. she closes the door. the rain outside falling quietly. she feels herself standing in the space of the room, water wetting the floor, breathing like an alien, like a ghost invading something no longer her own. it is noone’s. heated words floating in these walls. cold words, sharp words. forgotten caresses. stifled love. who is she? who owns this space? she is here, waiting, sitting in the corner in the dark. do you feel the wires trembling? a history will end. a mystery will begin. suspense. suspended between yourself and another, where will you end? watch. we will meet again.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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