Blame is in the Bones

I was without a doubt one in the same as you;

without you -

'but baby I'm with you' -

and wont you?

I am demure,

and there must be a naivety to my crooked face,

or why else would I lose every trace of myself -

confused at the pace of myself -

I am a waste of myself,

the constant ache to deface myself.

(Put a new one on)

a new skin -

trade the sour for the sweet, and

the bold for the meek.

I am walking

(in my memory)

down the gray highways barefoot in a turquoise dress -

I'm a mess to all who see me -

but no one does because I'm a ghost;

and you: in the infinite gesture of reprisal

are raising your glass in a toast to me -

the idea of me -

all I could be

and more,

except for what you really see -

but still I'm a ghost,

your evening-gowned gypsy host,

and I'll weave you into these transparencies

until you all learn to see yourselves.

Until you learn to bleed yourselves like paint

onto the walls and revise to live by those messages -

those signals

and symbols.

The phone call:

it said noon -

and I don't understand why you want to see my face again -

as replaceable as it was -

you want to play Errol and Olivia in the black and white

(of all the time)

I liked you better in silver when you glowed on the forty foot screen -

I can never lose you that way.

I can press my face to the picture quality

and curl up until my body becomes the shame size

and shape of your eye,

so I can see all that you see.

Go with you until I fall inside and become you.

We joked once,

hands held

(we've beheld)

something similar to ourselves;

though no two creations are alike,

or as alike as we

claim to be -

ashamed to be who we are.

You drink rapture like alcohol,

and I spit it out from my lips;

I don't like the taste of it.

I prefer the bitter scent of disaster;

it tickles my nose like fireflies.

We're webs and nets.

Fishermen and what they catch -

Am I the one dangling or are you?

Are we drunk on noon like a proclamation;

the darkening exclamation of a room with no doors or windows -

and I'll climb up these bricks to save you;

like the court jester I'll crack a joke with each step

I take until you love me for the belly ache of laughs

if not for beauty.

Beauty is the word I hate the most,

but you must thrive on it -

everything is beautiful

(the similarities, the differences)

and in my memory I walk, a living

(moving)

sentence of a book written before words were shapes

and before noise was thought.

I must be centuries old by now;

I must be holding you in my arms,

the lower half of your heaving chest,

drunk from it like crows -

when I close my eyes I see you not for the skin and beauty

but for the bones, a reminder of our mortality; like dust,

the crest of rust,

sealed with my name

(not a kiss)

but my real name that no one else knows.

It flows from my skin like hair,

brown and beautiful,

it's all around you in the air you breathe

and in the memories you dream.

We must be eclipsing;

my sister dead in the ground must be ellipsing -

long gone now,

but still unfinished.

Perhaps if we could speak to the air;

let it carry the weight of our sorrows

we would be the better for it,

the wiser for it -

there would be less of the things that force it.

And you know all my secrets;

all of the meanings behind the motions of my closed hands.

My words are really just prayers anyway.

Strange shadows that I hope will shine long after I become the wind.

(After all)

I was without a doubt who I've always been.