Broken,
band-aiding fractures with good remedies. She remained unaware that the buoyancy of
these breaks only repelled remedies. Salves don't
multiply or last so she lasted there without a balm, cliff teetering, until the bottom broke out.
Tired of teetering she walked out on the self, of herself. She initiated a descent with her insistence of being on solid ground. Fleeting and falling into something other than self, other than other. She didn't see the shattering. Her convincing was too sure. Her persuasions too holistic but she couldn't seem to put herself back together and so she didn't. Brushing off and insisting upon peddling and paddling and moving forward she gave them what they wanted, said what they wanted to hear.
You've seen them. The injured who insist it was a bump and they'll just resume? A thorough disorientation mistaking up for down, and joy for immense sorrow and then that sorrow is mistaken for a foundation and it just wasn't true. There was nothing there on that shelf, nothing in that convincing but the work of convincing.
And when the bottom broke a scrambling began, instinctively wishing for fragments of foundations or pieces of goodness, swearing they were there. She swears they were there. Too many memories of it- right there, where you were sure there was something. Still. Something to slip a toe onto? Something to teeter on? Something solid to aid a throwing of diminished weight up and over into the safety that never was.
At last, it all ended with a hard, fast, and far fall that let out the hideous fluids. The murk that released soaked up the falling place and when the soaking was complete I got up and walked out with myself, walking into myself.
Tired of teetering she walked out on the self, of herself. She initiated a descent with her insistence of being on solid ground. Fleeting and falling into something other than self, other than other. She didn't see the shattering. Her convincing was too sure. Her persuasions too holistic but she couldn't seem to put herself back together and so she didn't. Brushing off and insisting upon peddling and paddling and moving forward she gave them what they wanted, said what they wanted to hear.
You've seen them. The injured who insist it was a bump and they'll just resume? A thorough disorientation mistaking up for down, and joy for immense sorrow and then that sorrow is mistaken for a foundation and it just wasn't true. There was nothing there on that shelf, nothing in that convincing but the work of convincing.
And when the bottom broke a scrambling began, instinctively wishing for fragments of foundations or pieces of goodness, swearing they were there. She swears they were there. Too many memories of it- right there, where you were sure there was something. Still. Something to slip a toe onto? Something to teeter on? Something solid to aid a throwing of diminished weight up and over into the safety that never was.
At last, it all ended with a hard, fast, and far fall that let out the hideous fluids. The murk that released soaked up the falling place and when the soaking was complete I got up and walked out with myself, walking into myself.
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