Friday, September 23, 2005

Another From Anna.

Again Fernando-

A mother is only what you make of her, my dear, and you clearly sucked your own mother dry until she, with bare and parched nipples, had to tear you away from her breast. I wonder what it is you think you taught me, you in your infinite arrogance, your false closeness. If you believe what you say you do, that each one is only another and no one can be mine nor yours, why do you continue to spill over onto me? I have ended that which we once knew. I forgot about that night we stood so close in the crowded bar, breathing each others breath as if it was smoke.
What do you know of words, Fernando, when you cannot even make them into something solid, something self-sufficient. I waited years for you to turn me into something, to write me outside of myself, but you never did. What is it you think you've taught me, darling? To live the opposite of my ideals, to make people purpousfully into marble, so they can't even blink you away?

I do not seek immortality through this pulse in my womb. I only seek to feel a movement, a change. Perhaps, I'll believe in something bigger, even. A God of something. The echo of a child's lonely voice in the street at night, piercing the darkness with the emptiness of innocence. I feel her inside of me as I could never feel you. You think that I have made her to sheild me from the inevitability of my own demise but, in fact, I have made her out of an attempt to put something beautiful on this earth. It is the very same reason that you, with a beggars eyes and hands, scribble your soul so passionately, so strongly. But I am not like you. I will not toss what I have made into the arms of another.

How can you speak of "another" and all the while push everything you make into the barren hearts of lonely women and girls who don't know any better. Do you not recall Claudia and how she had a husband, how she had Andrew and yet you still pressed her, pleaded, pleased that she blessed you with what precious little time she had. You scold me for making another to fill my lack but you simply steal those already living to fill yourself with a longing for what you know you can never maintain.

You knew that night, that very first night that I was not the type to change. That I would not leap into your arms with words and with wide eyes at the wonder of them. I simply looked at you when you recited Shelley or Joyce. I don't know anything about the tapping of blind men. I only know the way they, unseeing, grab at walls and railings. I only know the way they press their hands to things, making them with their fingers. One can live without eyes, without a nose, and it really is no different. You still feel the rain steading streaming down your face when you walk home at night, beneath the crooked outline of the sky. You still feel the ground beneath your feet and the air as it brushes your neck and tickles cheeks. This is what I live for Fernando, things you can only feel: a gentle kicking, babysoft against my belly, the pain of setting something loose into the world (my womb come alive), a heavy hand wrapped around my own. Perhaps you too should learn to feel.

Thusly Another,


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