Sunday, August 15, 2010

A little bit.

A little bit of stream of consciousness because I feel as if I haven't written anything in a long time.

You Cannot Possibly Understand Regret

You asked me about regret because you said it was how you felt and I’m not one who’s often lost for words but your question caught me off guard and I was not sure exactly how to say that yes I know about regret because it often hangs over me and drenches me in darkness like that night when the sky was overcast I was at that park with my blood pulsing in tandem with the alcohol that swamped my veins and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds and frolicked for a while in the rare expanse of emptiness and that man left me to buy cigarettes and I’m not sure what made me feel so safe when I was so alone and these days I walk in the middle of the road at night time so I don’t have to pass through the shadows but he said it wasn’t far and I trusted him for some inexplicable reason so I sat on the swings and I waited until I heard noise behind me but when I looked it was not him it was two boys who I’d never seen before and they said things to me that now I can’t even remember but I didn’t think it was so malicious at the time I just didn’t know why they were talking to me at all and so when one of them hit me I don’t think it was pain that made me fall over but shock and I lay still as they loomed over me just looking not speaking when his shout split the suffocating silence and they ran without a second glance and he picked me up and dusted me off and I fell into his arms because I was frightened and confused so I did not say anything when he led me away I just followed this man who’d saved me because I felt I’d found a friend who would protect me and he took me to his house and made me sit on the couch in the front room and as I looked around I started to feel strange because there was just so much stuff there were magazines on the coffee table and there was a flower pot that someone had knocked over but hadn’t bothered to put right so it just lay there spilling its contents onto the wooden surface and it was just so cluttered and even though light filtered in through a window with open blinds I began to feel claustrophobic and then he sat next to me but not just next to me he was too close to me and then I knew that I didn’t want to be there anymore but when I shifted in my seat his hand shot out and he had my arm in his grip was not reassuring anymore and my pulse jumped as I tried to move away and he captured my wrist with his other hand and he pushed me backwards and even though I began to struggle my back hit the couch and I felt as if was being swallowed whole by those lumpy cushions and his body ran the length of mine and held me down and I could not get away though I struggled and I began to cry and I could barely breathe because my chest was being crushed beneath his hands were moving too fast and he was so much bigger and so much stronger than I was so even though I shoved with all my strength I could not move him and sometimes when I look back I think maybe it happened like they say in the movies it happened so fast I can barely remember but I know that it didn’t because minutes dragged on and I recall every excruciating second and maybe that’s why it’s so hard to explain to people because you cannot possibly know without having felt the way that he pushed his body against mine and the arm of the couch on the back of my neck and his knee on my leg and his elbow in my ribs and his tongue in my mouth and you cannot possibly understand the shame I felt when he moved away and I did not know what to do when his voice came from somewhere within the house asking me if I wanted a drink so I burst from his door and out onto an unfamiliar street and I don’t know how I got home but you cannot possibly understand why I put my clothes in the washing machine and I showered and washed my hair and brushed my teeth until my gums bled and you cannot possibly talk to me about regret because you don’t know what regret is.


  1. if thats not a story then im going to hit you for not telling me this already. <3

  2. Anonymous is only the most prolific poet of all time. Of all time!

    Also, nice work on the stream-of-consciousness, I've found myself quite drawn to this style lately.

  3. Oh Elisa, this is just breathtaking in every sense of the word. It's almost hysterical in its urgency; the words tumble out in a rush. Stream-of-consciousness really works here.


Thanks for showing me some love ;)