the cyclical nature of our shared psychoses (aka exorcismos de estío)

I am not unique. I am not alone in this. I am told. I believe. It must be true.

The end, the end, the end.

Everything sounds better in threes. The end of one thing is the start of something new, and there is nothing so heartbreaking as the end, over and over, it jolts us out of our foolish notion that there is anything certain, or accountable. The only certainty is uncertainty.

Maybe I'll see you again.
You never know.

Maybe I'll never meet you.

Maybe I have always known you, as long as I have been alive, in love, in denial, denied. I have, I have, I know I have, I always will, it isn't over, no.

IT has always been over, aborted before the first breath, breaching, braking, bucking, failure to thrive. But it starts, it always starts, in sputtering need, and rambling dark.

It is the end of the spring, and my birth settles in, one more time around this wheel, this crazy spinning circle, of vultures and carnivorous frenzy. Leave, flee, close off from me. It is safer for you. Tread only on the stable ground, even if it is slowly sinking. Live the illusion of stability. For me. For you. To not be left behind. Be blinded by words that sound vaguely familiar, like the ones that tell you why you don't deserve, or the silences, that tell you you don't belong, will always be forlorn, a prisoner inside yourself, your head, your heart, your cave.

Once there were words. I know there were. Words I can't combat with love, words I can't imagine, I can't infer, I can't believe that he would do that to you, your father, the man that engendered such a tender, aching soul, would beat you into oblivion, obliterate your sense of you, of love, of worth, that he could hurt you those ways, and leave a legacy of pain, for you to inflict over, and over, and over ad infinitum.

Take it all back, I would say, spit it into his face, make him see how wrong he was, but you would never let me, never let me show you those places, where you are free. You are free. I watch you go, running, fleet-foot into the night. Closing doors, behind doors, behind doors. Solidity.
Solitude.
Alone with me.
Inside my house, my head, my bones.
Wrest yourself from beneath my skin, reside on my lips, escape my tongue. You are no more, once more begun. The chase, the chase, not chaste, unsung.

You are gone, you are gone, desolate, I see. The bright sharp pain of abandonment stings my skin, pricks each follicle in anguished cynicism. I'll watch. I'll wait. I'll let you in.