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Past Worn Searching

by Rainer Maria

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1.
Tinfoil 04:55
God damn it, I’m not talking about my heart like it’s something you could break. There’s no convincing you I’m not sick. When I say ‘heart’, nothing comes to mind. Drug stores make me feel good, think of silver around my wrist. I’m not well. Your chest is a cage for my letters, and you’re handwriting is better than mine. God damn it, I’m not talking about my heart like a tinfoil valentine. Call an ambulance. I don’t want to walk home alone.
2.
I thought the ice is melting. We could talk on the lake. Not far from our house. The park is wetter than yesterday. I won’s swallow my pride. I know I’ve been unbearable. The past four weeks have been wrong. I can give you space. I know what I want. I can think of plans for us. Ruin, ruining our relay, relationship.
3.
And so, gradually, I’m trying—do you know how hard?—to integrate the past with now. I don’t believe in fate. There’s no forgiveness, there must be something. More. I’m convinced, regardless of all the times they said that I should forget everything. Now I’m not so sure that I can do anything. This broken scene with me above you above me. I feel broken. Didn’t you hear me? The basement floods, and all the magazines are wet. What’s left to salvage?
4.
Tragedy. Censure has kept me clothed. Apologize to me politely. My only wish is that revenge could blast me clean. Sometimes it’s easy to imagine that I’ve killed you, so you’ll have to forgive me when I send you through: Firing squads and land mines—I want to feed you bad things. Rigged elections and force feeding are too terrible to think of, but it still wont seem enough. For all of you who’ve ever hurt me.
5.
Sickbed 05:48
My eyes are becoming yellow curtains. Paint the window, stain the ceiling feverish green. My visitors smoked cigarettes and ate all the things that had me feeling unwell. Everything that came out of me was wrong-colored, or wasn’t at all. The voices below rise through the window, failing to make me well. Knocking on the door from the inside, taking pictures of my room one last time. I can’t live, without.
6.
My name is Jean Briggs, it’s 1964, and language leaves me. Cold and quiet, it’s punishment for trying to stand on your side. Eat snowflakes, fall down on thousands of layers old. See sometimes I’m seasons yet from the closest place from hearth to home. I can’t imagine the sun never setting, lives in the snow. Maybe I’ll leave here. Been through a bad year. Too cold to die here.
7.
You can’t trust me. Trees in the city don’t appeal to me anymore. The subway is always so slow in the twilight hour. I always walked myself from your place home. This is not my bed
8.
Homeopathy 04:41
Oh sweetheart and my constant apologies. I really fucked up. Oh lover, my hands are tied, depending on your good graces. Coercion practiced if you twist my arm. If you force my open hand, I can make myself again. I can dye your hair cherry red, move your bed under the window.
9.
I’ve thought about windows before, but this one’s too high. Filtered light, trees outside. Is this the end? Fifteen, and bleeding, and leaving myself behind. I have to believe that things would be different if someone had told me what I am telling you now. If someone had warned me. Is this the end of everything? Fifteen minutes later, and oh, how I’ve changed.

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released October 7, 1997

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Rainer Maria Brooklyn, New York

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