The Sound of Backwards Hinges.

He's drenched in all the Tuesdays I walked away from, backwards, towards him, in every

hour

I shattered mirrors with the violence of tears...

he's

suffering

his mistakes, this time, he's guilty and I'm

in between the seasons, stuck where it snows, with bare feet and frayed blue jeans hanging over the edge of sunshine....

I'm waiting, it's not April, there's no delight of discovery and he's holding on, so tight, the bruises of suffocation and the irritation of doorways...

I'm not Van Gogh, I tell him, I can hear you just fine.

He's.....

burned with apprehension and decisions I can't change, I remold myself to fit into his week but the days are disordered and Sunday hangs upside down....

and I'm stuck

on the edges of his voice and inside the scent of his favorite sweater, it's not January

(I whispered)

it's not the beginning no matter how backwards we are, it's not....

and my legs beg to be bare as I dangle over the end, I hang his noose up neatly so as not to tangle death but it's imminent, he said, and maybe

it's

almost short enough

for me.

My knees speak in the knock knocking hope of front doors, I bang across the wood of bed frames and discover how it feels to be alone, I close my eyes and think...

that it certainly isn't June this time...

that we haven't been discovered in quite some time, that the letters are folded maybe to small, that my handwriting learned just how to scramble

and I'm thankful God didn't watch me today...

maybe I'll be pure again, maybe

he'll let go.

It's not...

you and I

(I tell him)

but the mockery of how we sighed at midnight, it's the jealousy of March...you know how she crumbles...you know how she contorts and twists things....

and hangs words like nooses from the ceiling...

as his suggestions scar my brain and I think to myself

thank God it's not August, at least, thank God

I'm not running into

doors.

 

Reviews

[Perdition]

I have decided to take up residency here in this poem...let me know if I am in the way but until then the ghost over it shall be me....and I am thankful that God is a blind rolling wave...a ferry out to the ocean where the whispers drown. I'll try and keep my August down...Thanks Little Miss Van Gogh out in the better harvest .

[Muse]

and I'm thankful God didn't watch me today...
maybe I'll be pure again, maybe
he'll let go.

yes I had to come back to read some more...I'm captivated.

[no sun]

This is beautiful. The way you want to be stripped down to the flesh and embrace the end as if it were to begin again. The way you manipulate time and space along with your choice of months. Black and white months like March and January makes me think you are into taking pictures for it seems that you see your moments through a lens and then you write it. Brilliant again Jeanmarie.

[closed..acct]

Oh wow! I really liked this write,
Your imagery and detail is so good in this write,
and youe emotionis come off really well.