automatic writing 3

unbearable, awkward constrictions; the increasingly loud syncopation; the too-fast rhythm that you can barely move or breathe to; neither walk, run, nor lay to; much less dance to. tonight, when you lie, and tomorrow, when or if you awaken, what must you do with the rampage, the iron hooves and angry feet, the wild race that continues -- the entire history, really, in and of your child heart? hear this, can you hear my plea, you seem to be saying with your flailing little hands, with your eyes which stare back at me from inside the little glassed-in room, eyes that see through me, beyond me. measuring eyes i cannot not read. ready, alert eyes, even when they can barely keep themselves open, pulled in shut by pain, sucked in by valves and vessels that are about to explode, from exhaustion, from keeping the little organ intact all these long years. years spent growing up too fast in a household that has slowly, ambivalently taken you in, out of pity, out of fear, out of nothing but those eyes, that tiny body. dying now, i can see that, i recognize that release for which that body is begging. in generosity, in service, it made no difference, that little body always seemed to be begging for something, always. all ways of forgetting i have mastered are now rendered useless against the memory of those eyes, the only indication of the furious little beast about to burst out, finally, from its cage. age: fifteen; time of death: 6 in the morning; life on earth: painful and brief; struggle: never-ending, never known; smile: wan, always, and unforgettable; grace: utterly unbearable.

(in memory of maimai).