jbeauvert: (Default)
i've been through some shit.
inescapable, inexcusable: i've taken some hits.
had the breath knocked into the wind
and let down another friend.
another would be lover
another inarticulate deception of myself.
felt the drama and the artifice confound me,
erase the pleasure with the pain,
scribbling out notes on the damage and the flames
of my name burning my face. a nod to my father,
a tip of the hat to to his dad,
my mother's father in there too
the name you know me by is his,
but i don't want it and i can't stand it
and i won't have it after the shit
i have wanted and stood and had.
i had the ability to make myself happy.
i had a moment where i was this-fucking-close-to-good,
and i let it slip away.
let the shit under the door,
poured the bleach down my throat,
and let it burn like the flames of my name:
burning my face. i've been through some shit.
i've taken some hits. gotten angry
and pissed gotten ragey and dissed
gotten small and combustive
and vaguely confrontive for no reason. i have no reason.
except i do. another would be hover
another elusive trick of the light
in the night where i don't know the name,
i just rub it on his face and he cries fuck yes
give me your name and i smear it on him,
like this,
with the name of my mother's father
with the flames burning my face, i tell you my name,
i tell you anonymous and close
and i hold you to my chest
and you feel the pressure press
and you want me to fuck you
because of my name.
i am named james.
jbeauvert: (Default)
Grief, real extravagant grief may be the hardest thing I've ever experienced in my life. I say extravagant because like drapes and tapestries and silk scarves it covers and pads, muffles and mutes while simultaneously deepening and magnifying every single thing. I am swamped in emotional taffeta, tulle thicker than the air, drowning in a thickness of emotion I would have thought impossible in my small, jaded stupor a few months ago. Now I feel. Almost all of the time. And for all the coverage these are not gauzy feelings of soft lit candles and Rachmaninov, rather they are heavy woolen creations of misery and loneliness, and the lonelier I feel the more heavily barricaded in these emotions I become. I am disappearing even as in some ways I have been completely reborn by this grief. The emotional wretch is being replaced by an emotional wreck. And I can see no way through or out of these feelings.

January 2016

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