scorched earth policy

Your love is a scorched earth policy.
Moved, you did, through my fields of hope, sowing salt into the ground I tilled all summer. On deep, moonless nights you slouched toward my hearth, to steal the smallest glint of flame from the blooming coals. With the fire I thought you’d kindled for warmth, you burned. You burned my crops, with our fire. Ash and cinder shivered in the air, like something magic. It came to rest, painlessly, on my face. You poured poison into my well; I knew you would. That water was deep and pure. And when locusts visited the grain house, I knew it was you who invited them.

-jules

I am so uncomfortable all the time.

I am so uncomfortable all the time.

Every morning, I cut the pattern of my discomfort from fabrics of chagrin, ambition, shame, boredom, fatigue, sensitivity, anger, intellect, hope, desire and indifference.

The texture of my discomfort shears against my skin. I occupy rooms, but barely.

It feels as though there is not much of me with which to occupy anything.

There is more of others. Others who fill rooms with their generous spirits. They are clamorous and demented, supplied with talents foreign to me:

Like laughing, loudly
opening wide their mouths and throats and just
laughing
without constraint.

I only have so much air in my lungs for laughing.
Most things in life are not funny enough for that much air.

I am not a serious person
but I also am.

How do I explain that to anyone?

I can’t help the words I use. I like words. More than pictures.
Try making friends in 2018
with those credentials.

-jules