Kintsugi
Kintsugi.
I agonize some losses more than others. Because of this I ponder for what purpose loving is (at all) if, in the end, that which love creates must also be destroyed by it.’
Truly. To be empty—to remain in pieces, should seem a mercy in contrast. But as I am now, it has forged me.
Kintsugi.
Life reveals, that for every great loss that breaks, so does it gather back—lancing fragments together with the dearest experiences. It has increased my capacity for love, and so the suffering to contain it.
They are parts equal as they are everlasting. Beautiful companions are loss and love: deconstruction, renewal.
J.M.Liles ©️2024
[For Frank]
Corpse
I bite my tongue as I read the wall of text on my phone.
Lies, lies- oh, good, a refreshing break of convoluted ideals!
I swallow against nothing, feeling the torrent of torture settle like grit,
a film on my teeth, a twinge of pain in eyelashes constantly covered with makeup.
I wonder where she thinks she gets off- but I realize it is stupid to wonder over someone with wandering eyes and ever shifting responsibility.
She dedicates songs to me I listened to in wracking sobs because of her,
tells me I manipulate all those I love into loving me, tells me I am mean and cruel,
and tops it with the crowning of the most mentally ill of our shared kind.
She knew it would land- the final blow. It is why she said it, and then tried in vain to take it back. Tells me I am good, only surrounded by enablers. That I am kind, just not to her.
I laugh. I empty my stomach contents into art. I burn it in hopes she feels the matte of ash on her fingertips- fingers that touched anyone but me. Tastes the smoke in her mouth along the spit of those she left me for.
I hollow. I rebuild. I swallow, I brush my teeth, I wash my face. All in vain to dispose of the corpse she left me with.
Quantity Over Quality
I placed the last box down with a thump.
"Whew." I was feeling good as I walked into the hall, which was filled with tables topped with open boxes of cans, bottles, and packets. Soon a middle-aged woman walked in. I greeted her with a smile only to receive a frown. "Maybe she's having a bad day," I thought, walking her through the hall, my smile steady.
"Only one?" She read, pointing to a stack of bologna.
"Yes, only one." I responded.
She grimaced, said "why should I have to eat this, it's so fake," took three, and walked out.
There
Here I could have written words that would have broke your heart
There I just did...maybe
Was your heart broken in the first place?
Did you mend it with a million sunrises and sunsets?
Was it ever enough? All the things you owned?
What would you give to them again?
If you could?
Did you say the right words?
Are you loved and did you love them?
Are you sorry you hated?
Are you scared of the end or welcome it?
In the minute past and the minute before have you changed?
The words I write here or there are just words
But they're not are they?
Words have power, like the heat of a fire on your hand
Like like the taste of blood on your tongue
Like the pain ending finally with sweet relief
Loving the world and all that's in it was not for the likes of you and me
It was for God's, Angels and prophets on a cross
The words I write here.
The words I write there
A Stiff Rhyming Poem
This morning I woke with an unflinching boner.
It was not a good time for me to be a loner.
I thought about her, perhaps I should phone her.
But all she would do is give me the cold shoulder.
In any event, she's too much of a moaner.
Thus fantasy made me a sci fi lab owner.
By experimentation I was able to clone her.
Except for the gene that makes her a groaner.
And dropping my pants, I thereby cajoled her.
She tore off her jeans, rejoicing (in) my boner.
12/3/2024