melancholy

Mother Melancholy

I’m stuck in a beautiful melancholy where my skin flashes hot-

and cold-

and I can’t escape it, I wallow in it, I play in it,

I weep in it and I call it home and-

unsteadily-

I climb to my blistered feet and the salt grips at my face as my eyes

stream and my mouth opens and

a string of saliva breaks and

I am not beautiful but-

at the same time-

I am beautiful because

this is my melancholy.

This is my melancholy, a purity of white from

my eyes, and a darkness of

red from my harsh fingerprints and

nothing left in my brain but a desire to howl

howl like a-

a-

a- a- a-

a child. Howl like a child as he feels his

skin brushed by comfort, by love, by

mother. by Mother. by Mother indeed.

That is the howl I will emit.

Held for the first time by something I know will stay

with me. A melancholy. Whose mirror image

projects a dripping chin and leaking nose but

a smiling and open mouth and her teeth-

white, pearl, perhaps too large-

sit comfortably in her mouth and lie

comfortably in her arms. And I howl.

I’m held by mother. by Mother.

A beautiful maternal melancholy.

A beautiful Mother Melancholy.

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III: From Lull

Is it so fucking hard to simply be accepted by someone? Or is it just my destiny to walk through this wretched earth both hating and hated?

No, “hated” is far too strong. And “accepted” is also wrong.

Strike both of them. Shit.

Is it so hard to just mean something to someone – there, that sounds better already – rather than just… mediocre? I mean, it’s a rough estimation here, but I’m certain that’s what every human aspires to. People want to be loved, they want to be someone’s Number One, they want to be the first and last thought in someone’s head of a day. And then you have the people who will be happy with being hated… the ones who enjoy revelling in the anger and misery of others. You’ll probably still remember someone who did you very wrong twenty years down the line.

And that means – what? – that they mean something to you, correct? Yes – I might be someone’s brother, but that means shit. Of course Lois will remember me always, I’ll be so important to her. But she doesn’t count, why would she? She’s been around me long enough – and I around her – for both of us to piss each other off.

Although I don’t remember ever pissing her off. She pisses me off though.

But – where was I? Oh. I’d rather mean something, something real, to someone. Being a brother doesn’t count. And, and I know I say this with hypocrisy and a scoff, I’d rather be on someone’s Nice list than their Naughty list. Why wouldn’t I want someone to smile fondly at my memory, as blunt and unfriendly as it is.

Perhaps I’m just going soft, perhaps I’m… no, never mind. I don’t know what I mean.

It just… it’s sigh-worthy. I’m not someone’s anything. I’m anyone’s nothing.

Jesus Christ, I’m everyone’s nothing.