not that it came as a reliefpublished: 2013-11-08
I threw up this morning. I never throw up. I had gagged on the false image of love that had filled me with greed and desire and still circled in my system seeking escape.
Not that throwing up came as a relief. It hurt.
Last night I watched a pianist play. I closed my eyes to stop myself from falling. His notes made me dizzy. They glided up and out and through the air, bounced off the ceiling, trickled through chandeliers and crept through people, crawled up against my back, over my head, into my mouth and nose and ears and vagina, stuffing me with contempt at the fat fly within me, attracted by a dangerous light.
Again and again chords of resistance would stroke me the wrong way. As if I were circling one way and the notes the other. Rapidly followed by chords of harmony, which suddenly turned to circle with me, slightly faster though, so that no memory could form, no image, no falsities. The chords stayed one step ahead of me.
I threw up this morning. I never throw up. Not that it came as a relief. It hurt.