This is what they say
Some things can’t be undone. A peeled orange. A quartered pig. Time. Words. Sometimes we open our mouths and our fathers and mothers crawl up from out of our throats. They grasp at our teeth and lips and pull themselves up like babies from a birth canal, peaking their heads out, roaring like hungry little bears, their gasoline voices wrapped in barbed wire, lit matches in their tight little fists. Sometimes we can heal ourselves, perform the necessary triage, but most times we can’t. We misapprehend the nature of our wounds and woundings, applying leaches to black eyes, trying to kiss away slit wrists. Alone in our skins, we try to imagine ourselves the kind of people who don’t lie or steal or break hearts or bones, but in the end we can’t help but remind ourselves of ourselves, tired, bruised, and sore.
by m bartley seigel
via h_ngm_n
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