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Jul. 3rd, 2006 02:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
victormakesartI really shouldn't be running around this much after donating blood. But I can't help it! I can't stay still. No bruising. I get out of breath easier and I'm so aware of my heart. But I don't get dizzy much anymore.
The Deaths who I've met in the Nexus have all been kind and beautiful. Perhaps some poets at my school were correct.
I've figured out that love is pretending not to be scared of the dark so I can lead Joey downstairs late at night and flip the switch.
Another sad poem that I might not have up for very long, due to insecurity:
Mirror by the Door and I Walk Too Slow – A Nursery Rhyme
Mirror mirror by the door
I don’t like you anymore
and it isn’t your fault
it’s just that you’re there
and I walk too slow past you
and you reflect me in a way
that I’d rather not see.
I want to remove you
but I never get around to
it, you’re the Achilles heel
of a woman who’s afraid
to see a podiatrist.
So I look at the ground
rather than at you.
Mirror, mirror by the door.
I walk efficiently and slowly
like a bowling ball dropped
in the lane of hesitancy.
Straight, then before I hit a wall
I turn.
To see you.
Mirror.
Mirror.
By the door.
And to see my eyes.
And I look sad.
And I’d rather not see it.
Because I also look haunted.
And I don’t want to see it.
I walk like the middle of winter
that drags on and on and on
and on
and
on.
Or the beginning of spring
which is quiet and sneaky,
but I don’t have flowers
I have you.
Mirror mirror by the door.
Mirror mirror by my door
I don’t want you anymore
and it’s all your fault
because you purposely
reflect
a part of me that I’d rather not see.
You catch me off guard
when I’m not paying
attention.
To show me
a sad
haunted
slow
little girl
with all the joy of a child at show and tell.
“Lookit this, I betcha neva seen a
toad wis t’ree eyessssore a lady
wis a constant state’ve cryin’.”
Step
right
up,
Mirror.
You own the freak show but you don’t own the freaks.
Mirror mirror by the door
I can’t have you anymore.
You don’t pay rent
you don’t clean house
you don’t eat, sure, but you digest
enough sorrow to feed
a third world – to use a politically
incorrect statement – country.
Mirror, mirror by my door
I won’t look at you anymore.
I’ll close my eyes when I walk past
because I won’t look at the ground anymore,
this isn’t your town anymore.
At the risk of hitting a wall
I’ll close my eyes.
The Deaths who I've met in the Nexus have all been kind and beautiful. Perhaps some poets at my school were correct.
I've figured out that love is pretending not to be scared of the dark so I can lead Joey downstairs late at night and flip the switch.
Another sad poem that I might not have up for very long, due to insecurity:
Mirror by the Door and I Walk Too Slow – A Nursery Rhyme
Mirror mirror by the door
I don’t like you anymore
and it isn’t your fault
it’s just that you’re there
and I walk too slow past you
and you reflect me in a way
that I’d rather not see.
I want to remove you
but I never get around to
it, you’re the Achilles heel
of a woman who’s afraid
to see a podiatrist.
So I look at the ground
rather than at you.
Mirror, mirror by the door.
I walk efficiently and slowly
like a bowling ball dropped
in the lane of hesitancy.
Straight, then before I hit a wall
I turn.
To see you.
Mirror.
Mirror.
By the door.
And to see my eyes.
And I look sad.
And I’d rather not see it.
Because I also look haunted.
And I don’t want to see it.
I walk like the middle of winter
that drags on and on and on
and on
and
on.
Or the beginning of spring
which is quiet and sneaky,
but I don’t have flowers
I have you.
Mirror mirror by the door.
Mirror mirror by my door
I don’t want you anymore
and it’s all your fault
because you purposely
reflect
a part of me that I’d rather not see.
You catch me off guard
when I’m not paying
attention.
To show me
a sad
haunted
slow
little girl
with all the joy of a child at show and tell.
“Lookit this, I betcha neva seen a
toad wis t’ree eyessssore a lady
wis a constant state’ve cryin’.”
Step
right
up,
Mirror.
You own the freak show but you don’t own the freaks.
Mirror mirror by the door
I can’t have you anymore.
You don’t pay rent
you don’t clean house
you don’t eat, sure, but you digest
enough sorrow to feed
a third world – to use a politically
incorrect statement – country.
Mirror, mirror by my door
I won’t look at you anymore.
I’ll close my eyes when I walk past
because I won’t look at the ground anymore,
this isn’t your town anymore.
At the risk of hitting a wall
I’ll close my eyes.
