Field Notes ▪︎ Prose (2)

10. madness scene 1 (play)

I'm destined to a great love. I write and I write and I write and I can't tell you how but I know I'm made to be in love like I see it in the movies like I never saw my parents do and I'm meant to talk about it in cryptic notes in inkless letters too soon too fragile or maybe it's too late. I'm incapable to put my feelings into spoken words and I can't cry without mourning someone I never met. The people I know dismiss my love and I can't connect enought. I'm ragged breathless dying to be fed. Where are you? Love of my life love love love...love of my entity but I'm always falling with the universe not life; life slices you. No I'm made to love you eternally. And I don't know how I'm supposed to find you but I was never loved yet I ache for you I have so much for you, for us. I'm telling the world about you holding your breath in my lungs, kissing the edge of my pen. You speak and I can escape can feel my hands can be. Can be without pinching my mind to initiate the cycle of pain. Only with you. It's a remarkable thing I stretch my joints to your limbs and my cheeks to smile. For a second every furniture I'm seeing is not burning is not dead dead nature, every thing is me and this is good this is the real illusion this is the real white lighters I saw in the mouth of the dream. Sun up I can feel I don't even need the glow the literal celestial you're by my side hunting my fingertips crawling inside the bed I longed to reallly rest in. Do you do it on purpose ? "I'm mad" you make me write and I want to spend all the night writing you trying to find a form of beauty who wouldn't fit you make it a flaw I said...you'd be easier to love maybe you'll love me back if you reflected on the side of my surface. Flawless still you remain touched/untouched ? Hand on my uneven hips I like what you wrote can you do it again ? can you show me your hands ? can you show me your face ?can you show me your love ?
And i'd write in the night in the dusk in the morning in the noon in the dawn in the wold howling, forever, 364 days a year. You'd step in the doorway sometime somewhere when I'm touching myself in the shower flare my rhythm call me by the name cut the inside of my thigh taste my blood and I'd stop holding my breath away. I know myself. I'm mad. No I don't know myself writers never do. Theirs do. Theirs. Friends who sing at the ending who were enough to bare her pain, mine with no heels to hurt dancing on the floor of my madness on the carpet of my house with no window to feel like a home. But I'm destined for love and I'm here to write you to write about an unspeakable truth about a voice with no tune about a shadow with no framework I'm here to memoir your trip away. I love you; I love you like no one else.
X
Yours infinitely
Find me In the pain
Find me in the unhealed wound.