A cup of coffee, the sun rises in waves. The colors resplendent, and here I am. Full of things I wish I was not. Memories and yesterdays I wish I forgot. Like the house of a hoarder, with a couple less cats. Except you can’t see the hoarding, it’s just tucked away. All the words I can’t tell you, when I say okay.
Okay is okay like termites in the foundation. It’s fine until I find them. Ignorance is bliss until it isn’t.
Okay is okay like termites in my brain. Termites in my heart. Eating. Devouring. Nibbling. And I just want it to stop. The more I try to forget, I remember. The more I try to let go, I cling. It’s like every day is opposite day, except I forgot how to play. It’s like typing without fingers. Scratching nails on a chalkboard, but I chewed them all off. Nubs gesturing wildly, I’m supposed to just get something. But I dropped the ball.
I’m a termite Pinocchio trying to be real. If I wasn’t a puppet, maybe I’d feel. But the strings of me pull and so I must dance. My mouth opens up and my nose extends. It’s seems that a jackass is my natural defense. I belong on that island, and I really must go…But it feels like a ship sailed. While I stood on the wrong port. I could have sworn I was there. But for those goddamn termites.
Any day ending in y is good enough reason to cling to a barbed wire life line. Tho it seems the world is satin and silk, I naturally find the hardest way to go. If it doesn’t hurt, why bother? When love is weaponized, who cares about nukes? Seems to me a mushroom cloud would be far, far easier to understand than the curve of lips, the noose of a tongue, and hangman’s proclamation. “I love you.”
…In all these lines, ropes, and nooses…I feel more and more like a jackass puppet and less and less human.
Not that it’s all bad. Cobbling together lives, stories, houses… Just move on to the next project. What’s new termites when there are so many old? The house is still standing. We may have had to patch a few things here or there, but… There’s a fireplace. Every so often, a log gets tossed on. It burns til the ashes are exhausted. Then, cold and smoke. A memory of what was, a desperation to just feel what warmth is. Where the sun can kiss a face and it doesn’t feel like it’s another wrong place. Wrong time. And what if no logs return? Is there a point to a house that gives no warmth? How does a compass point north if there’s no magnet to pull? No purpose seems fun, til you put it to use.
Not that it matters. Does a house have a choice in how long it stands? Or are the termites the true judge? Is it just a matter of waiting until on becomes off? and what happens when there’s nothing to turn on?
And not that any of it matters… Maybe there is a termite in my ear. Maybe it whispers madness. But as so many parts fracture and fall, there’s this notion…however small… that maybe, just maybe… there’s no termites at all. Maybe it’s a cricket or a conscience or soul. But I tell you, that one is real tough to hear.
Or maybe, what I call a termite is what I call I. All these pronouns and nouns seem to describe, but how can I trust anything with my eyes? The same ones that see Love as a sentence to lies? If I’m as broken as I think, I don’t know that I’m the right person for the job. I’ve tried exterminators, hell I burned it all down. But nothing is different. The foundation’s not true. If two wrongs can’t make a right….Am I just a broken clock, set to 2? Do I trust that at least twice a day I’m right? Is there an atomic clock in my soul, something, anything telling me truth?
I’ve dug through the ashes, the bones, and the soot. I’ve done it all, then a few times over for good measure. There’s nothing, no termites, no house, no noose. There’s just me, my thoughts, and my termites excuse. It’s as if happiness can’t happen, as long as I can. When everything’s fine, let’s destroy it again.
There’s too many questions, and the thoughts never stop. My kingdom, my house, all that I am. I’d give it, I’d give it all, for a quiet A.M.
Mah Butt Itches 
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