Wednesday, August 20, 2014


I can’t let you know the level of hurt my heart felt, you, shoving me aside. People who know you ask what happened. Didn't say a word. Didn't need to. They call you names. I don't answer. Don't need to.
You want me to be the ghostwriter of a ghost?
/’gōst/= one who occupies the body of a living person in order to complete itself.)

Ghostly declarations:

--you can always just say no to me.

--make that story fit.

--No!keep my piece as is.

--keep the version we originally gave you.

Ah, you zigzagged to a new we, but where was I now?

No, there is no conversing with you about the level of my hurt, for my mistrust of you is fully blossomed and mature. Your actions. This result.
In my corner I began to see the situation very clearly given my view from here—stuffed into a corner – your presence like an unskilled putty knife jabbing me in to the mitre. My view broadened out in a wide V. I know what you're thinking. And now I was able to view you and your imaginary players, your thrashing mind, your flailing birdie hands, working their surroundings. For a time, I doubled over wondering how you could burn a bridge with us, we who share some sweet history. You’ve done this with so-and-so, and so-and-so, and so-and-so.
I do know their names. I looked the other way. I kept the faith. Alas, add my name. A bridge named the Golden Deteriorate.
You’re no bridge builder. You’re more like a skipping stone- a pebble --and only on your best days. You know only one-way trips after which, you sink down to the murky waters, tumbling around at the whim of the tides, unable to see for all the dirt your rolling around kicks up.
You thrash. You roll. You’re rubble.



Thank you for the nauseating journey for me to experience this valuable lesson. Wait! Have you read this far? Do you think I’m thanking... you?

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