Okay, so in another OLLIE'S, (on 82nd? I think), and dry-mouthed and pressed on... It's the end, the end, the end! A Wednesday without choir and without Elvis and the ring of courtesy is as precise as a surgeon's scalpel, only they have removed my heart and there is no donor... And my hands smell and tongue-yellowed. I want to break this table, break this glass and their necks will snap like the beady eyed ducks that I know are hanging in a window here somewhere... Only, I haven't the energy or the audacity to do it. And I wonder how I will reverse all of this when I go home.
(Four weeks for the blood, eh said, but how long for the flesh?)
And worse of all... worse of all is he to whom I gave me heart and he couldn't even be polite!
Blind, blind, blind to what I take so much care to press inside and then cry about the pressure of...
God, it hurts!
And they all fade into the background of the end as I prepare to transform... prepare to end myself (for now) and take off this sweaty, uncomfortable mask... To hand it on a rusty peg, rinse the dirt and let it gather dust until another season.
Time, time, time washes whether I want it to or not.
And Is cold my spelling and wonder about the stains I see all over.
How will I get them out? And who will be there when I spill again?
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