I used to travel her route on afterschool afternoons. They have since incorporated Helena’s Way into a construction site. Intentional or otherwise, now I scan the sidewalks from the car window, eager for a glimpse of her.
There she goes, I would say. The one who won’t let me go.
I have forgiven you thousand-crane times over; though in murderous moments of toxic spite, I have retracted my benevolence. Big-picture view: you have bestowed me with understanding — thank you. And I’m not angry with myself anymore. You will never heal as long as you hold on to a has-been happenstance. Neither will I.
Now that it’s clear we were never rivals, will you finally unclench your fists?
These words were sludge-stuck until I dumped them out: years-old coffee grounds composted to nourish dormant seedlings. Zombie eggs past their hatching date.
You can’t stop me, I’d scold her (pretending to be him). It’s worth the risk.
Undead in her sarcophagus of slithering decay, she yet siphons saturated breath from the earth-sore skin of watership-down-the-rabbit-holes. She will not rest entombed, my precious muse. With unquestionable fondness, I stroke her discarded scales and hum bloated hush-a-bye-babies, lullaby death-nots, have-and-held-fast thoughts…don’t fret, my pet. Your rabies shots have been renewed. I want that you should keep your health.
My will — my duty: to nourish my scarred mind. To soothe the mythical ache of less-without-him. To keep us both strong: host and parasite, coexisting in mutualistic harmony.
If you don’t like what he’s playing, don’t just change the song — change the album. Keep the shoes. Lose the booze.
Life, we choose.
© Jane Bled 2017
All Rights Reserved.