Have you ever read me, all of me, my words, my creation, my poetry, my prose, all at once, everything I ever had to say, the words said as well as the thoughts left unsaid? Is it just me who does that? It seems like I’ve been a sponge all my life, absorbing the words of total strangers, pouring their lives into my soul, drinking their words like nectar. I remember being parched for your words but you never quenched my thirst, instead you shoved poems up my ass, watching your words dissolve, slowly, and seep inside my body like a saline drip. Tonight, I wish to be read like an open rose, tonight I want to be remembered for these words, the very words I will despise tomorrow for all the thoughts left unsaid.
In the crudest sense of the word, I’m a bucket.
Born as an empty shell, I’ve been collecting pearls all my life. Pearls of wisdom. Dripping ink and blood-stained words. Screaming orgasms and the charred remains of dark, gruesome, incestuous fantasies. Moss-covered memories dipped in snow, sore joints and ashes strewn on mountain slopes. But the bucket is not nearly close to full. I could fit the universe in there. I could hold a galaxy suspended in the cold dregs of coffee swirling at the bottom of the bucket.
There was a second that blew past the slow pace of a fast life – a second in which wants vanished, love faded, wounds healed and space folded unto itself as a smooth, unending expanse of all existence. In that second, the bucket tipped over and emptied itself, to be reborn as an empty shell again. I’m in my infancy, there is no meaning to purpose, existence; even meaning has no meaning. I’m empty and open wide, blown with the wind, moved by a silent whisper and infused with a melody that threatens to fill me to the brim and overflow my entire being.