Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

November 11, 2013

Cell Memory

My skin is broken. I grazed it with boiling water and it fell away. It was already new underneath. The moment was prepared for at the cell level, but it still hurt. Recovering the break. Losing the burn. Reinstating the smooth surface. The new surface looking newer because of what happened to the old. The old vulnerable, no longer. I won't do it again. The old couldn't learn what the new won't forget. There is a direction I can no longer breathe in. It is something to do with the pressure of my lungs against my ribs. Rib that broke between a scream and a foot. I put my right foot forward. The way forward hurt but I didn't let it affect my stride. The way forward hurt but I didn't let it effect my stride. There was no other way. Some of the contextual changes were effected, and some affected. There are parts that aren't new but permanently damaged. That is part of the new context. There are old and new parts outside of me that correspond. Then there are parts outside me that relate only to a new surface. There is new surface that only relates to permanent damage. I am broken, inside and out; and some of the breaks are clean, new surfaces, and whole, the way parts of shells on a beach are still shells. At least until they reach the decimation of sand, to wear at other shells until those reach the decimation of sand. How hurt did we have to be to love one another? How many breaks until we fit the landscape? I hurt; some new edges are still sharp. Wearing them comfortably scares me, especially when the sharpnesses don't make a sound.

Posted by Delire at November 11, 2013 12:28 PM