2.23.18 – Ruffage
I still couldn’t talk to you. I’d babble till the booze bubbled back up and all the speech was a slurry and poor position. I didn’t have more than three words to truly say or offer but even in our ire and subsequent restraint to cleave into one and other I wouldn’t have a way to just say anything plainly. It came from side-stepping all the long bounds between the head and heart and trying desperately to meet the needs of both with separate vocabularies. I was spending time buried in dictionaries and making no headway to the symbols that actually meant something to someone other than me.
I hated the cowering that accompanied a thrust of dialogue from the far end. It only made my spoken word feel so meek when stacked against a feeling purely expressed and posed as an unrestrained acceptance of a poor situation. Maybe we both were aiming to be heroic, hoping for a better place to make that old home work even if it meant being blind to all the inbetweens that were enacted without civility. That’s where forgiveness lives but I’d banned that word from my home so long ago I wasn’t sure if it had any real meaning anymore. An apology from me carried less weight than a spent breath and was joined by a sigh from the wounded.
I was asked to be a spirit, silent and bound to the haunt. When no rattling of chains followed I think there was worry that I couldn’t die loudly enough. We each had our way of performing that removal from the flame and maybe my way lacked the vibrancy that indicated a struggle. But I wanted to stay subtle and shackled so that I didn’t spring into action against wishes that put me in stocks. I’d have enough time in the unsettled days to consider that tempered position and if it merited a change for better touches. Until I did, the wood wound its way deeper in and left the dark scars that only strong splinters can.