Requiem

If I could go back
If I could find that door, that magic carpet
That perfect understanding
That moment of growing up that came too soon, too late

I would take myself through it
You would be waiting
I would be who I should have been, wiser, older
I would destroy the world
If such was required of me

To find that safe place
That perfect note of music
Rippling like moving water
Healing both our hurts.

I would walk between these flaming walls, fearing nothing
And you would be here with me
Instead of rotting in someone else's heaven.

Oh Deb. Both of those are stunning, but the poem takes my breath away. Sail, that last one--ouch. Ginger, yours nearly made me cry. I need to scroll back and reread the rest, my tired brain can't remember them all. I am going to write another one too..or maybe another five or six. This topic really resonates.

This topic got really ouchy, really fast. Amazing stuff.

As I wrote this, I thought it was too personal, but not compared to Deb's, so what the hell.
Heaven is the magic of your smile. That moment when I realize you understand, I don’t need to chop it up, make myself palatable to you(although I wouldn’t mind if you took a little taste, of course) I fight down the urge to go a little Sally Field every day You like me. You really like me!” but you like me best when I fake being tough, so I never say it. Not like that. If you ever gave it up, I bet it’d take a while because I’d giggle like a fool, reputation be damned.

Hell is simple, despite my bloody preoccupations. Hell is thinking of you, walking away, with somebody else.

Hell is thinking of you, walking away, with somebody else.

If there's enough hell-yes in the world for that one, I haven't found it.

Ouchy is the word.

Oh, and I was writing last night and forgot to post on Sail's and Chi's. But, yes indeed. Yes.

Wow all of the drabbles this week are amazing. Here's mine:

There’s no hope in Hell, and there was no hope in that dorm room. I think I’d been locked in there, by myself, for a week when the cereal bars, my only source of food, ran out. By that time I no longer cared. Time is hard to keep track of when all you do is sleep and cry. Each ring of the phone wounded. I never answered it; I never let anyone know that depression had overtaken me.

Salvation came with a knock on the door: “Sarah, it’s your mother. I know something is wrong. Please open the door.”

Oh, sj. Damn.

Man, this is one hell of a topic.

Thanks, Deb. I am amazed at how easy that was to write. It flowed right out. Are you maybe up for a game of literati? We haven't played in ages.

"Stories that flow are a gift from God." A fellow Munch fan told me that, and we Munch women can't lie. Take the Fifth, yeah, but not lie. The saddest part about mine is it could have been written about any number of people/times. I've thought of another one, but it's dirty.