ya’aburnee
“Is it better to speak or die?”
I am struggling.
Yet I realize that the thing I lash out against is only myself.
I am irritated with people. I am sick of reading between the lines.
Why misuse metaphor? Abuse of the image through language is a great violence. I don’t understand half the things anyone says. The intention is never purely stated; I feel the thing move sideways where it creeps like a beetle in the dark. I don’t want to be the huntress! I am sick of inferring the meaning behind the message.
State it plain. Dress it down. If you cannot wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t bother with the decor to dress it up! Fancy adjectives and constructs might be saved for the honest and brave.
My caring is far too great; I feel every unspoken urge. Is it better to speak or to die—I would rather die by wind than listen to the gaff of the unwilling. I’d fill my body with the howl of a hurricane and allow the gale to mark my skin with its blows. I will suffer the stroke of the tempest before I listen to another lie.
Why dress language in petty prisms? Remove the colour; I don’t want to be entertained. I want brute truth. The pails hit the bottom of the well where there’s no water. A dry echo surfaces from its cavernous depths and tightens the earth. I make myself smaller with each pretty little lie. Contraction breeds fools.
Ritual of the unstruck: strike once or not at all!
I love, always. Heedless of the repercussions, I sing it proud. I put myself on display; there is no farewell as sweet as devotion. Love is saying goodbye; to who you are, where you are headed, and what you will become. A great pause; love distills the action. Like rinsing dirt from a bowl of berries, recognition of the object appears clearer.
Do not tell me what you will. Show me. Action is muddied by intellectualism and tropes. I don’t want to talk about beauty; I want to be it. I want to wear the tenderness I seek like a silk dress that rustles against my shins. A blue bridal gown is what I hope for, the presentation of utter and ecstatic spirit!
Only I will wear it for the stars.
Love personified is too personal an affair; I see no point in stringing myself as a kite to one subject. The best things arrive spontaneously and burst! Scattering lessons through light, breaking the murmurs of the shadow—water in the well.
I hope to burst a billion times while in this body. I hope to dry up and ache so deeply that when the water rushes in, I am nourished by the scent, the sound, and the suffering of the event about to take place.
I am struggling for the thing that is indescribable without metaphor.
The abuse of the symbol I care about so deeply ails me.
I am irritated by people—must we wear each other's pain? Why can’t each act be one of devotion? A blessing for each breath; the purest reason to be.
LOVE! For the simple sake of sensation—to feel something greater than; a reminder of your existence. I am here because of the gnawing that appears and disappears at random. To cut it off is to sever the self from creation.
ya’aburnee = 'you bury me.’
