Dear lost one,
I miss when you hugged me hard and made me tea– I felt like I belonged near you. Maybe I belonged somewhere. Those days were kind of brief.
I miss when I brought you to the land because I was showing you what was most valuable to me, trying to give that creative, haunted place to you as a shining gift.
I’m sorry I was confused when you said you loved me; I thought I mattered and you wanted me near. Can you blame me for misunderstanding? We meant two completely different things.
code
I feel you pulling the curtain back, pulling the curtain back. You won’t be satisfied with the end product and go to the source code. You’re amazing when you pick up the board, and the pieces scatter. We were in the middle of something, but– ok! You turn over the board and tell me what it’s made of.
It’s a plastic coating over paper bits glued together and folds. It smells like something that can be bought in a store. We’re not in an imaginary world. We’re in this actual hell-soaked world, hurling toward death.
Ok, maybe. But I’m still a bee. You can’t stop me from flying toward nectar, pollen, petals, fragrance, warm anthers. My butt is going to stick out as I gather. It’s summer in my dream, and that’s what I was born to do.
You pull the curtain back over and over, which most people are not signing up for. They don’t want to see how the sausage is made. The clean illusion is their entire goal; they’ll pay for it.
maya
Thank you for doing the dirty work. But could we enjoy the illusion sometimes? If you said yes and I could bathe you, you might like the warm water and soapy bubble froth, my hands on your body.
Or maybe you would have said yes if you wanted it. I respect your exhaustion. I respect your disability, and I remember when we’re mid-conversation an unexpected sound stops us both. Schizotypal or schizoaffective, my teeth are disordered or not disordered, and you are another being who doesn’t want to surrender.
I’m grateful you won’t let me project on you. You’re the person who gave me that gift of truth. But still I’m looking for a place to surrender. I created conditions for trust, and I tried trusting, but it’s a two player game at least.
curious
If you won’t accept me as a lover or as your bitch on the back of your wheeled conveyance, is there anything you can accept me as?
- someone singing in the next room
- crying meeting facilitator
- artist who gave you something
- circus performer you pass by with a glance on your way to the big top
- maypole dancer
- fortune teller
- street sweeper
- mailman
- bright listener
You did let me pull cards for you once. And I have listened for hours.
Maybe as a reader, you accept me. As a weird being who texts you every day, looking for connection and meaning. A puppy showing up at the back porch still looking for a lap when I’ve been kicked away a hundred times, curious about even the boot. Sniffing the boot.
Puppy girl, bad puppy, failed pup. Or winning pup if looking for the chow is my job. I’m whimpering for a treat.
red thread
Lost one, I’m happy if Wednesday I can give you the journal I made with lavender pages and the covers with cereal box cardstock covered with maps. And I decoupaged used postage stamps on part of it. I mixed school glue with water and used my plastic paintbrush–I’d never done that before.
I reinforced the spine and edges with blue masking tape, and I bound two signatures with red thread onto the cover; I think it’s strong.
That made me happy, to think I was blessing you. Some energy went there. Thank you for accepting it, if you will. If we’re having two separate conversations at the same time, may they come together sometimes. I could answer your question accidentally.
May our conversations please a bird who overhears us on its search for something greater.
I love you,
Nest
