Calling for My Ruin

All of my entries in my journal
are senseless these days
like I’m trying to speak in another language,
a language that no one knows.
Not even me.

It is a bit like what the dying tell you
moments before they go
or what old lovers tell you
moments before they leave you
for your selfishness, your mediocrity, you powerlessness

I am working in two versions, my Gemini
this duality, vain and fickle.
Two women
two lovers
these stories, these voices,
my brain, like my chest,
cleaved.

But there is a kind of floating, in this language
long winding syllables,
a place where the words connect and then come apart again
as if they were submerged for a thousand years
under a angry sea
and this is where I am living.

I am undecided,
late at night,
as we walk the quiet Brooklyn side streets
the breeze from the ocean whipping the leaves in a fury.
My hair, nearly pink, under the streetlamp,
as I stand, unsure of which way to turn.
My mouth full of teeth and words
hard and unyielding.
Things I am choking on.

So I am putting them down here
in a desperate attempt to sort them out.
I am not asking for your help,
because you know that is something I cannot do anymore.

Words.
They are sounds like the magician’s scarves and if I pull one
they will never stop coming out
until I am unraveled,
disintegrated,
nothing but my scars, my bloody fingernails,
my ugliness, my cave.

A harpy
naked on the shore
dashing me against the rocks
calling for my ruin.