Secret Pop

Feb 18, 2003


What lives in me. The horror of it. The delight. All the memories and the madness and the girlish glee and the laughter that came too loudly. I keep so much that others discard. I hold on to so much that others release. Sometimes, demons are formed. And they rise up and upset things and eventually melt away into ice cream. I was never able to hold a grudge. To my doom.

There are scars. Left by words so cruel, they cauterized as they cut. Left by knives of fancy and deceptively pretty thorns. I gave myself to them like any fool. I learned to expect the sting, but came to hope it would soften. I have had dreams where I was invisible. And afraid of getting caught.

But I have come to believe that the valley is lush and verdant and worth discovering. As are the mountaintops. I have no plan of escape. Where would I escape to? I will linger. I will diminish. I will swell into fury and fire. I am not resigned to extremes. Nor am I assigned to any one outcome. I don't believe in fate. I prefer the irresolute randomness of folly. I prefer to believe that I will stumble into what lies ahead. I am so prone to stumbling.

I am devising an incantation. But I am convinced it will never work.

But if of ships I now would sing, what ship would come to me
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a sea?

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