My whole life it seems I’ve felt the weight of a gun held to my skull.
It’s an insatiable lust for surrender.
The awful rowing towards God.
Every time that oar smacks the River Styx, I fight within myself to keep from throwing overboard. I’m thirsty; drinking is too hard. I need to be fully immersed. I need to drown.
What the appeal of a horse gone lame?
A dick gone limp?
Sometimes I muse what life would’ve been like if I had not been born with wasps in my womb and a cockroach in my cunt.
What if my mother puked up my mewling pink fetus with the rest of the remains of her esophogus?
If, when my father fingered my immature labia, he had just thrown me down and finished the job?
Precious. Fucking precious.
If I had not a sense of humor, maybe I could’ve cut to the chase long ago. But with my slit smile, I had to drag out the delivery, still bracing for the punch line.
It is a myth that each man has his forte; you could take a chainsaw to my torso and find not one piece of talent inside, except maybe that for sadness.
I hate it. I hate it more than words could capture. I crave to leave my bleached bones in the sun until there is nothing left to critisize; just pure white, blank canvas.
I haven’t the willpower to starve, nor the courage to finally pull a trigger.
Instead, I have the godawful ambition to float around in this cesspool, waiting for my self to evolve. Just waiting, so patiently.
I hate patience. The same patience that has let me ride this perspiring beast of life with one hand half-heartedly holding the reins.
It’s not her fault he bucked and neighed and threw her off.
She was holding the reins the whole time.
My heart is still.
Waiting purposefully for for when my shaking thumb slips.
The Last Song of Anne Sexton
26 Saturday May 2012
