The Noise of You

I wonder if I can ever wash you away. The stain of past remembrance, regret, retreat into some scepter semblance of myself. The cool patches of the wall only remind me of the beguiling heat, the tension of knowing too much too soon.

I don't miss you, any of you. But I do. I want what I shouldn't when I never have.

The cryptic moonbeams and slants of window-blinded light on too pale skin, the brush and pulse of velvet fingertips. It was Russian Roulette committed in darkness, where want speaks louder than lips can. Where death meets long enough to linger in life, bored with the strife it admits there...Whatever happened to just friends?

I suppose this is a eulogy, to the death of that stillborn, miscarried mutant of triplet relationships that I bore for a semester. Maybe the abortion of those lips and hands, teeth and eyes...they carved a piece out of me as well.

Anger swims with desires these days, frosted over with a thick callous of bitterness and broiled with shame. I will not say the curses brimming at my mouth, frothing over in exasperation.

I am the still cool, cold bitter wintermelon, soothing to still-warm bone china chipped bowls in my mother's cedar cabinets.

I am the dappled danger that flies on moon beams.

I hate the way you looked at me. The way you all looked at me. Like a possession, something to have and to hold and let go of.

My heart grows gap-toothed with precarious crevices, a God-shaped hole to circulate grace...

I forgive you, I forgave you all, I don't forgive myself.

He forgives us.

The healing starts with the quiet, the still small voice of silence...of God.