Dirt206

I have broken myself far too many times to ever be put back together. These patches of ink I have inflicted upon myself bind me together. Each glyph like a brand: where and when I was last tempered, bound too tight to fall apart.

In a world of laws and boundaries, I am the strictest on myself. I have written a small handful of words filled with love. None of which were set to a melody. I have spitefully dreamt words and chord progressions, so venomous that I am unable to confine them to a permanent medium. If Kaki King can record a revenge album, why not me? If Dave Grohl can write a hit for "some bitch," as Kaki put it, why do I shut my words away, just because they no longer ring true? Am I mightier than the gods I have assembled in my pantheon? Or too proud to admit I was ever wrong about how I felt?

You were supposed to be everything good in the world. Baking, spoiling, overflowing with love. The years have been unkind, making you unkind. To me. Because I'm not your kind. As you've kicked me down, year after year, hurling insults too big for you to comprehend, I've managed. Picking my bones out of the dirt, stitching myself back together, reassembling myself isn't easy. But practice makes perfect. And my blood, and the blood of my true family, is thicker than anything you can throw at us.

Walking on the beach, first time on the sand since reconstruction, hand-in-hand with my destruction. Mom would be so proud: no training wheels.

Listening to "Summertime" by Janis Joplin, I do the cutest thing: I hold myself hostage as I re-enact scenes from the past few days. I need to purge my mind, but I have no means to cleanse my palette. So I loop the recording, hoping James Gurley can pierce something vital and leave me renewed. He doesn't, but not for lack of trying. I switch to Eddie Hazel, which makes me pause. "Play like yo' momma just died." Thank you, thank you. I have, as usual, only managed to make things worse.

The blood seeks rhythm, the heart seeks groove, the soul seeks fat bass to make my fingers move. Poetry made fluid into melody so sublime, waves of emotion crash in and out, always on time. Blood seeps through pores, bearing memory as it leaks. Strip away flesh and bone, pure essence pulsing to the beat.

Over years and miles I have set myself in stone if only to prevent my perpetual bridge burning from catching me off guard, from behind. The cinders and embers warm my heart, or what ravaged bits remain. Despite my cynical stone facade, I know that's a lie. Regardless, I press on. The heat propels me into the cold distance. I embrace the chill without backward glance.