pictures.

Mon, 03/02/2015 - 23:40 -- samjar

Location

I think in pictures, not words.

So how do i find the ability
To translate images of 
orange and red shadows reflected across the blinds of your bedroom window
i don’t want to end up having to say
that i still love you
because, you see, 
the word “love” just doesn’t cut it for me
i want to show you.
 
i am unzipping my scars 
and pouring my DNA
underneath my long sleeves and bed sheets
i want you to feel the same stinging passion 
i have been feeling 
i don’t want to simply say
that i scratch myself until i bleed
what good will that do
when i can just show you?
but what good will that do
when you don’t even want to look?
 
i once read that virginia woolf
had a theory
about the female language.
and how our sentences
are structured differently 
from males. 
we like to explore with our words
we want to evoke images
and emotions.
male sentences
are
linear
and
to
the
point. 
if i were male, 
this poem would consist of
only four words.
"i still love you." 
 
i want to undelete that 
picture we took last winter
and place it 
next to the same picture 
of you and her
you know, the one you took
this winter
at the same place
with the same pose?
i want compare and contrast
who did it better
why do you look happier
i want you to see me
screaming
in my car
i want you to know
that i am miserable
but i’m doing just fine
 
also i am in denial
 
i remember that 
photo album
you used to have on your phone
it was dedicated to me
it was just 
pictures 
of me
i remember 
how slowly 
our union 
developed.
we explored
we didn’t need to make a point.
we were women
we were graceful women
a ballet duet at a tempo so slow, you wouldn’t even know
if we were moving.
look away for 20 minutes
and when you looked back
we would have moved a mountain.
so slowly
yet so effectively.
 
little did we know that
our mountain was a volcano
and its crater had given in
at point of eruption
causing a landslide.
we tried to outrun it
but much like a 
picture
we became frozen in time
much like the victims of pompeii
the ash and pyroclastic dust 
trapped us 
and separated us.
we became our own tableaus.
lonely and tense.
 
the only difference was 
you had someone to chisel you out.
a back up plan that i knew nothing about.
 
now here i am.
a frozen
meaningless 
picture
hoping to spread
neoclassicism
back into your blood.
i am a painting.
i am a sculpture.
please observe me.
crack me open, you know my code.
look at my bumps and lumps
trace every crevice down.
think in images with me. 
i am here.
i am now.
but now 
it's too late….
 
You've burned my picture.
 
My ashes
were dumped
A long time ago.
This poem is about: 
Me

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