Image

For The Last Daughter of Krypton.


For The Last Daughter of Krypton #Supergirl || I don’t often write for show characters, or about show characters, via poetry, but…I desperately needed to write something that encompassed the last episode, and a short story felt like too much emotional labour for me, whereas this came naturally. || For my love, the Girl of Steel, who carries an entire civilisation on her shoulders, and is never allowed to fall apart in a way that brings healing. I understand.

*Rend* not rent. Typos are the devil’s work

Return [It].

I feel the echo, of an echo, of an echo;

the hollow plop of a coin hitting water.

 

I have never learnt to reconcile myself with this aspect

of losing you–

the dimming of colour, the absence of everything, and nothing,

even as a loose abstraction of myself grows closer to

all the others who must now become the sum of these parts.

 

I do not understand this thing;

this feeling; or rather its lack:

I am only capable of seeing it in the near terrible, hysterical

unravelling I offer to others–

an unchecked giving as the unleashing of words,

a stream sourced through a dam cracked in too many places;

I see it in the empty way I fall asleep;

eyes shut,

body tensed in a tranquillity it pretends to feel,

while I remember the fullness, the sheer unfurling comfort

of formerly falling asleep to you:

the feeling of your t-shirt against my face, the pleasure of my

limbs stretched out languidly,

chest and stomach discovering the welcome stability of your own.

 

I have not learned to reconcile myself with this:

wanting us, but no longer wanting you,

even as my eyes linger on faces that remind me of yours,

hovering above necks like yours,

with the exposed, and nervous shift of an Adam’s apple,

the quick swallow of vulnerable things–

dead spirits, so very alive, they cause my throat to tighten,

and my thoughts to

stumble,

stutter,

stop.

before memories less kind step in.

 

You have been a part of me for so long, that I have forgotten how to live

without the intensity of feeling too much

even when the only reassurance I had of my love was my need to stay;

even when I doubted that my love for you had truly survived

the uneven tension of your unwitting abandonments

(how were you always so much more sure of my love than I?)

 

I would simply like it to stop:

this feeling of disconnectedness

as my heart tries to recall that other things made it happy,

made it feel,

made my teeth ache with anguish,

or the muscles of my always too-tense, too self-conscious body

liquefy with the sweetness of my contentment.

 

Whatever you have taken with you,

or whatever I have given you that now makes it all pale

as everything rings with a falseness that almost resembles futility,

I ask that you return it.

Please?

I dislike the ghosts of dead things.

 

K.N.O.W. Monday, January 23, 2017. 01:10 – 02:33 hrs.

For Sara

Dear Sara,

It’s been two years, two months, and approximately seven days since we first heard the news.

We weren’t best friends, or even particularly close friends. What I do know though, is that being on an online platform–where a few lines of html, SQL scripts, and code, become a diary, and a way out–creates a space where strangers know more about us than the people in our lives. If you were still here today, if you could still hug your son, or speak to your husband, I would tell you that in this space many of us have created for ourselves, there will come a time when we can slowly go through each post, and with each post, we will find a piece of ourselves that we have lost, or one that we have yet to find. From those short lines, or that one verbose, sordid post where we laid bare our souls, we will look at it, and think, “I cannot believe I made it this far.” Then, in time to come, we will even say that we can not fathom how we moved from the world where pain, and darkness were everything, to one where we understood that they are only a fraction of what we could feel.

Since I’ve last known you, and read your words, I’ve lost my own words, but lately, things that remind me of you, have been showing up in my life. So, I thought I would wrestle with my word loss for a few minutes, to say that I wish you had made it into this year. I wish you were still here to realise how many miles you’d travelled in this journey, and how much of that journey would slowly become something you once hoped for. No, I will not, and I would not have said that the journey would get easier, or that it would fail to hold its power over you, but I would have said, that you did have the strength to move through it. Sometimes, it is a matter of making it through every second, and then every minute, and finally every hour, until the days begin to move at a regular pace again. I don’t know why I chose to address this post to you, or why, when I first heard of your death, I chose to address that post to you–for my beliefs teach me that death is a sweet sleep, one in which you feel and know nothing until the time to wake has come again; yet, I do not think that this post could have been complete without me writing it to you–for it is yours in the only way I know to offer something to someone I care about.

There were many things that influenced your choice, and we will never really know which one was the straw that broke the camel’s back. What we do know, those of us that cared about you, is that at each step of the way, you fought it all tooth and nail, and to those that secretly called you a coward for your choice, I hope in time they put away the shell that covers their hearts, and take time to understand. Understanding is what saves lives. Companionship is what keeps those of us who are drifting, grounded. Not big gestures. Not fancy words. Just knowing that there is one person who we can talk to without talking, that will grasp at least a minute amount of the whirlpool that swirls within us. True, it cannot stop everything, for the final decision rests with us, but often, a bit of flotsam floating nearby, is all that’s needed to keep our heads above water.

To you, and the many parts that were a part of you,
From the unfragmented, but many parts that are a part of me.

Yours truly,
The Honorary Member of the Sugar Clouds Club.

To Laughter, and Cotton Candy.

Deenakdrowaln

You tried. 

View original post