'Autopsy' comes from two Greek words meaning 'to see for oneself', and writing often feels to me like an autopsy; it feels like I'm assisting at my own. Much of it is a matter of holding the knife properly, being careful not to cut too deeply or flay too much, too quickly.
(I do feel naked, often; I feel naked and splayed and laid bare by writing here. It's my own choice: to open myself like a book, to let eager hand and eye unveil me.)
Sometimes I feel like a science experiment, like I'm something he dissects and pins back despite my bleeding.
Or it's worse. I am the experiment and he peels everything away and pins me back not despite but because of the bleeding, and he touches and probes all those places because he knows that his deft and skilled touch placed exactly there will make me bleed.
It's a cover of sorts for his own bleeding, but also his desire to cut me.
What kind of beast would turn its life into words?
What atonement is this all about?
- and yet, writing words like these, I'm also living.
Adrienne Rich, 21 Love Poems, VII. Labels: meta, obscurity |
Closed/on Hiatus
![Your writing in the other hand [sic] is pure filth and disgusting.](http://www.gotbears.com/gund/sesamestreet/75985.jpg){kind=link}