17 Years
In my headI see the pink man.Blood runs down his faceand now I hate him.He killed the music for meand for thatI won't forgive.I felt the bile rising in my throat,it could have been a mourning occurrence,almost.I turned cold with fearuntil I saw the blood and his raised eye.My saviour sacrificed his forehead for meand he cries with joyas I confide.It's unusual- I wouldn't have before.I here the wordrape,tumble from my Father's mouthand deny with an unsure tongue.Then I sitcross-leggedin childish terror.5am is the time he'll always remember,like saying farewell to his little girl.Even Electra would feel better than thisif she remained alone.When walking back infor the first time,my mind saw the room freeze.Pool balls hold their position on the table.In reality,nothing changesso I standswilling ice in my glassspeaking to those who willas if everything is fine.But he is there.I feel his crackedboring into me.His hard-boiled appearanceshows his age.The questions always follow me:Why? When? How?I try to recall-not knowingis the most painful wound.A gauze appears over a memoryfresh from the editing suite.It's like a cryptic messagewithout decoderor a jigsawmade of only edge pieces. Written May 25th, 1999 © on Sep 02 2001 02:43 AM PST, Louise Bell 0 • 10
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"In my headI see the pink man.Blood runs down his faceand now I hate him.He killed the music for meand for thatI won't forgive.I felt the bile rising in my throat,it could have been a mourning occurrence,almost.I turned cold with fearuntil I saw the blood and his raised eye.My saviour sacrificed his forehead for meand he cries with joyas I confide.It's unusual- I wouldn't have before.I here the wordrape,tumble from my Father's mouthand deny with an unsure tongue.Then I sitcross-leggedin childish terror.5am is the time he'll always remember,like saying farewell to his little girl.Even Electra would feel better than thisif she remained alone.When walking back infor the first time,my mind saw the room freeze.Pool balls hold their position on the table.In reality,nothing changesso I standswilling ice in my glassspeaking to those who willas if everything is fine.But he is there.I feel his crackedboring into me.His hard-boiled appearanceshows his age.The questions always follow me:Why? When? How?I try to recall-not knowingis the most painful wound.A gauze appears over a memoryfresh from the editing suite.It's like a cryptic messagewithout decoderor a jigsawmade of only edge pieces...."