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Ophelia

-For April-

I was drowned at eight years old. It only takes one inch they say and I sucked it dry into the hole where the wind might have been blowing my hair as far back as you can see into the earth to sprout new trees that I might be one with the elusive IT.

At twenty one I was born again - Venus in an unlikely sea shell of salted still water and torn lace later to be eaten by flame. It was a symbol unlike any other - a door open to ritual of my own kind which would become the flagship to carry me back to my core when I had once again orbited outside of myself and choked on the thinness of space.

You were there with me sis.

There are piles of bags and of shoes and of label marked jeans between us - my anger the two headed dog that betrays me - isolation my enemy. As if I could, Sister, have that kind of foolishness - to think we are so definably different now- that vibrating atoms popping in, popping out could delineate our twin-ness.

And I am afraid. Paralyzed by convenience, choking on ease - terrified I will good girl my way into yet another split and that voice - that sticky three breasted woman who dances is scratching from the inside to get out but I don't have time, don't have money, don't have talent, don't have -

I opened my inner lid to her today and found myself cranking away at a a wheel for a pittance for nothing sustaining and she tore me down showing me roughly how I keep myself small by the hour - and that room of unlimited just beside -

I have stopped now. And I mean it this time. Ophelia rose from the brine shrimp that day -

And, reincarnated - she is headed your way.

1:08 p.m. - 2007-07-26
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