Clutching at the dictionary with blood red hands, if you
hold me up to the light you see a lot more red these days, more blood, less
water, but more blood means more ways to bleed. Holding the dictionary to my
chest willing it to transfer over the sentiments to make myself understood, where
are my words? I am Queen of Words but my subjects have been rebelling. I am the
Marie Antoinette of the Thesaurus and no longer does anyone answer to me, I
come up for air from extravagance needing the comfort of spell check, and I
hate spell check. I can’t write him a love letter if it doesn’t make sense
because I fear more than anything not making any sense to him.
The dictionary I brought out of a box in order to draw
around him more boxes. I keep a lot of things contained, boxes and bags, I pack
up and then unpack, when was the last time I could call a place home?
Blood red hands on a blood-soaked dictionary, God help me
make sense, God help us make sense, I can’t lose all my sense anymore, I can’t
wander like this anymore.
I unpack and re-pack but unpacking takes less time, pieces
of me in boxes, pieces of me in bags. Stories here, scars there, masses of
flesh and the bloody heaving past of a girl that never wanted anything except
to give everything she had and receive back the same, she read too many books, she broke too many times, she
knew God too well.
Every single fucking piece of me I deliver into his hands
every single day. What I have left to clutch I clutch and so I clutch the
dictionary. I recite to myself,
“Anticipate. Verb. Regard as probable; expect or predict.
Anticipation: A Carly Simon song too often relevant to my
situation.
Reciprocate: Respond to a gesture or action with a
corresponding one. Experience the same feeling for one as they feel for the
other.
Reciprocation: What we’re all fucking waiting for.”
There are no words to make him understand in this gaddam
book.
But the dictionary says I don’t love him because it’s easy. The
dictionary says it’s easy because I love him.
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