What do you want to talk about today, he asks me.
--I don't know. Nothing. I don't want to talk.
....
You know what just came into my head, he says, --the word 'violence'.
Why do you think that is?
I think about the person I don't want to talk about. Or think about. AlI the many secrets that fall under that category.
I think about the violence that hangs in the air with him and me, heavy and still, and that sometimes is present, alive, a bleeding, raw and bruised entity.
I think of how it's a living thing that runs through my life like a dark and tangled bloody vine binding me to a bed.
--I don't know, I lie.
I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything
in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,
including the body I had then,
including the body I have now.
Margaret Atwood, Morning in the Burned HouseLabels: clever fucking bastard, shrinkage |
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}