there is eloquent noise outside of my window, but it's not as beautiful within my heart. the echo that doesn't end is inside of my tin soul. the ever-reverberating sounds that respond to my questions about life, relationships, future endeavors, voice, paths, places, tampons, tape. i am caught, Macbeth style, with blood on my hands, and my eyes see this blood and i keep washing them, over and over and over again, until they are raw and that mystery blood is now my blood, and i've cleansed my own inadequacies by punishing my self with more threatening hurts, more damaging threats, more hurtful damage.
readers don't intend to find words written that they predict; they read for enlightenment. movie goers don't know what to expect; they know the plot and nothing in between the beginning and the end. writers have a conscious intention with the written word; they aren't able to predict what word will register as it is written. all this life and still no ability to predict it's outcome.
by silencing/shuddering/failing/retreating/averting my eyes/disengaging my heart.
that's the worst of the blood i spilt: the swift motion where i took what i'd claimed as my own, ripped its lifeline away from the throbbing center, and stole it back. as if it was ever mine to be had.
and look at my hands.
"A little water clears us of this deed ." (Act 2, Scene 2)
does it? because it's pouring outside.
deep in the caves there are mourners; people who are dancing, touching one another, being flooded by the pounds and pounds of rain falling outside their safe, dark, cold spot. inside of each of their chests is a cave as well, one that is calling out a louder storm than the flood falling from the sky. when they finally quite their souls, they hear very clearly the word being told all along: love.