Reach Down

Cut it loose,
cut it free.
Reach down
and pull up,
grasping at the base,
at the root of it.

Curl your fingers around
and squeeze.
Reach down
and grab hold,

You plucked the heart of me
out of the heart of me,
dug it free
from the barren soil
in which I’d buried it.
You want to water me
with your laughter,
like it will
make the earth
inside me
fertile again.

I want that, too.
but I want that,
like I want
your mouth
on mine
again. I want
the inside of me
to be opened to the sky.

You can’t even see me;
none of you can.
I’m invisible.
She keeps me hidden
inside her, suffocated,
cold and without sun.

You’d never accept
me, anyway.
You’d never open your arms to me.

You tell me
I’m beautiful,
but you don’t know
what kind of a monster
you’re praising.
You don’t know
what kind of freak
I am, inside this skin
that isn’t even mine.
This body I hate.
This face
that bears only
the faintest resemblance
to mine.

My jaw should be
stronger. My shoulders
broader, my spine longer.
My whole self
so much bigger
than this.
So much better.

This isn’t me,
I want to scream.
None of this
is me. My hands are
the only thing close,
and even they
are pale imitations.

You reach down
and you cut me.
You cut me loose,
and I am sinking,
falling even further

Maybe I am sinking
on purpose. Maybe
I am falling
away from you
because you’re too much
of something wonderful
I can’t have,
and I can’t bear to be
this near
to you,

Reach down.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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0 Responses to Reach Down

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Jones. Wow. Is there something else I should/could say? You are something different and completely wild, in my opinion, I don’t think I have ever met anyone hereabouts who can do what you do with words. This physically hurt me. Made me feel cold and angry and scared and other things I don’t name well while hungover. I don’t know who you are, Jones, I really don’t, I don’t understand how you can be. You give me something to strive for, and for that I both hate you and love you.

    I’m glad you write it out. I don’t know how you could keep this stuff inside.

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