The Ripest Display
20 Oct
Sometimes writing can clear your soul. Sometimes it can dredge up old rotten garbage and cloud your visibility.
I asked you to write something about change and transformation for the magazine Jessie and I are working on. I asked for you to do it without actually writing about it myself. My life. My experiences. I realized, that’s not fair.
We all understand that there’s a million different events and feelings that might add up to why we are who we are, or why we do what we do. What I’m interested in is a snapshot of a singular event. One that plucked your heart strings. One that spun your head.
With that in mind, I finally wrote. It was about 4 am a few weeks ago.
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I stood in the doorway not knowing what to expect. I was summoned to this familiar garden of land mines to explain, in words. To make some sort of peace with crimes committed.
You approached, eyes brimmed and shaking, with an impenetrable expression. I knew I had inflicted hurt, but didn’t recognize it’s depths. I buried my head when you asked the inescapable question: Why? You gripped my skin like you wanted to tear it off and expose my shaking bones. WHY?
Struggling deep in a sea of regret, I replied in guttural sounds. Nerve endings exploded in your piercing rage. Why, Melissa, WHY? At this point I could only turn inward, love. Wrapped in clinging limbs, near hysterics, your eyes blasted walls. Impassioned, beautiful, with a vengeance. Loaded words, a silent detonation.
You crawled inside my skeleton that night and stood it upright. You are better than that. Plucked notes resounded in the hollow. A sudden awareness of weights and worlds hunching postures. Golden love, internally entranced, yet unable to shrug.
And so it goes.
I wept, broke into pieces, wailed the demons to escape in echoing descent.
You tended the wounded creature. You preserved the illusion of it’s magnificence. We held through the turmoil, emotional waves coming in and out, erasing both footprints and sandcastles.
We were there, then. Blinders fell, leaving.. well.. space. Time. Unspoken promises stuck on repeat inside some lovers’ melodrama. Spiraling, gaining power in mock decadence.
We still spin. And dance, in the ripest display.
MRumianowski
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