A movie-montage of torn calendar days
Flies past me on an inexplicable wind.
As I have stared grimly, determinedly ahead,
They dance and skitter and vanish behind.
At first the pages were sandpaper and acid.
They seared marks on me.
Each one took an age to peel from my clothing, and another to peel the pieces from my hands.
And I would scrub and scrub until my fingers bled,
And each page was harder to shake off.
But over time, their texture changed;
Or my hands were worn smooth from the practice of peeling each day from my shoulders.
The pages now sometimes miss my skin,
Or lightly brush by, leaving stinging papercuts instead of smouldering flesh.
The acid burn has diminished to an itch that lives upon my fingers.
And sometimes, when I'm careless,
I touch the tips of my fingers to my face
And my acid days crawl into the corners of my eyes and rain onto the ground.
I am no fool;
This book of days is nearly done
But I know a library of unopened diaries lies behind it,
Each one sharpening the edges of their pages.
I have stood in the face of this paper-filled maelstrom;
Through acid days hurling themselves blindly at my face,
Through sandpaper days curling themselves around my heart.
I have stood through papercuts and caustic lesions.
I am bruised and scarred
By this passage of time.
But I have stood.
And still I stand.
With shoulders hunched and shaking,
With my legs cramping and my hands clenching fists in my hair;
But with eyes wide open
I will stand.
© mjc 25 October 2016
return to home