Figurative DawnMature

Sometimes the only way for me to remember where I'm going is to write about where I am.

Imagination holds my hand while frigid tar engulfs my heart, and while the dawn comes literally I wish for a figurative intervention for the night that drips from the walls, from my blades, from the mirror, from my tongue. I thirst for water of cleansing, water of pure, water that is so simple a thing yet the bottle is empty, the tap is broken, the sky is loathsome, and the only water lies in multicoloured rivelets beneath my feet, besmirched by the oil of all those who travel faster than me and think themselves better than me and indeed may be.

With the mystery of the moon and the undoubted content of my blood no one can say, at least, that I am hopeless. I can always imagine a better place and there it is until I turn my face, and while I see no water I have died yet, and while the night is unpleasant there is a glow still—possibly from within, maybe from without, existing, as it only matters.

No, you cannot close the door on my mind and no you cannot rape the image I hold between my thighs for safe keeping and for warmth because some day that image will return and bloom and thrive because I kept it there, away from your predatory stare, and if anyone even knew of it they must have been unique. My mind still functions. My image still changes.

While you may see similarities, my same face, the same freckles, the birth mark on my head and chest and arm and thigh, I change still in the darkness—hair grows and is cut; tattoos, though temporary, come and go; kimonos change; scars fade.

Eventually I will be what I see in my imagination and I will be holding the hand of who I used to be and with my free arm embracing who I would become next, and then you cannot say that you could have rightly given up on me though my eyes were dark and my breath not enough to fog a mirror and there was string around my fingers and my neck. The time I spend here in the night that sees no figurative dawn as yet is the time I can look back on and say fuck you, clouds, for being in the way, and fuck you, lock, for being ever on the other side, and fuck you, rope, for tying me down, and fuck you all for being in my way to getting where I was supposed to be all along…

Imagination holds my hand while frigid tar engulfs my heart, but this night is only one act of a full life just at its start.

The End

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