there are stories that fail in the telling
and there are stories
it is the telling that rives me,
the blood and guts of it,
teeth gnashed down to the jawbone.
i'd weave the words into the dark, if the silence
were gentle enough;
and i'd tell you the ending, if
i were brave enough;
if i didn't mind it killing me, spine broken,
i cut as smooth as flame-warm wax;
under my flesh i am dark and royal and richly red,
kingly beneath my skin.
stories are voodoo magic and mouthy.
they tell the scars on my arm a metonymy,
my limbs a plot woven by delicate digits from
the softest ether.
Um, does anyone know where this goes, or how this ends? Because I am at a loss here.