Confession
Today, half-awake, I am parallel to the ceiling. I am the vast expanse of floor creeping out, and out, into the sudden but sure end of our universe. It is my bedroom doorway, where four paintings and my childhood are enshrined. They are all cloaked and waiting patiently for me. On my mark, by the opening and closing of my eyelids, they do and do not exist. One day I was just beginning, but now I am proceeding cautiously into death. I am twirling my fingers around all of my possessions, knowing they will outlive you. And it gives me such relief, to be both hateful and kindhearted. I have waited so long to be angry. But still, I am jealous of the dogs, always sleeping. Of the dogs, whose kindness takes nothing, and so it takes nothing to sleep at night.
Today, you’re my headache. I walk around with you, lugging you, loading you, my bloodsucking leech. I would forgive you for I have caused you. Like a bad storm, I blame myself for angering you. It takes work, with you around. I walk backwards and forth across myself, facing myself over and over again, breathing myself into particles. And still, you are there above my eyebrows, twitching, forcing truth against the jagged lines of my skull. Watch how well I disappear, watch my convenient descent into charity, church. I have always wanted these things. You, my headache, my only witness. You are the bumps on my elbows. You are the voice over the phone, hissing, slurring. Then sweet as a kitten. My poor serpent, you are missing your spine today. Long, long ago, I sensed you there, so there I discovered you, slithering behind bar stools and beer tables. Mistakes were made but they were earnest. This is something else.
The game is played and I have won, we played nicely for the most part. I have every reason to sleep tonight. I think I shall become the horizon instead. I shall sink out slowly across the world, blurry and brilliant, never to be seen again until tomorrow. Tomorrow, you are your own headache. You are on your own. You are the blizzard, encroaching upon yourself, tender as the rising sun, whom you barely notice through the haze, through spiked mountains, and the millions of lakes which have all frozen over, and the world has suspended its own disbelief. You are on your own, but the world has chosen to love you. Climb out of your cage and let yourself be tamed, surrender to what cannot be sincere without you walking upon sworn enemy territory. I will put my hand against you, my firebreathing dragon, and surrender.
I will love you and loving you takes work. Loving you takes nothing. I will cherish the day, and the millions of ways you can say sorry, and the careless, offhanded charm of one vapid fool with no price to pay. You will pay for him, for this, but I will love you anyway.
