Fought over

It’s nice to be fought over, in a strange way, in some way;

but on the other hand, in another way,

it ain’t.

 

And when the violents who violate her personal space

and keen freedoms, and [c]a[k]e her sense of tranquillity

with symbols and signs that resign her forever

to a life of persistent bla[c][k]ness and ca[c][k]ness

and fu[c][k]ness and du[c][k]ness held tight,

and [w]alls, and [t]alls,

and maybe [r]ules and [g]rimnesses, on top of them,

she realises she doesn’t

care all that much any more: doesn’t matter

either way, whatever they say.

 

And there was once a time when she did care

to wonder if starting afresh without

that serious blunder, even with and alongside

those from her past

who had cast the first stones, and had

ripped her humanity from the hollow tree of

calamity by sending her off to an imprisoning

hospitalisation …

 

… and this nationalisation

of individuality was clearly a result

of the squares and circles of radically unhappy

family …

 

… but even so, and even then, she refused to reach

out, for one simple reason: the rules were still

theirs; they themselves were still fascists;

and no single player was

out there prepared

to come close to being closer than the barge-poled

caged innocence of those who might sup with

the others no one ever did sup with.

 

And there was once a real time she would’ve happily

gone up to that ex-brother, that ex-lover, that

recent wonder of an angel, and said:

“Hey-ho, let’s blow away the cobwebs of

misunderstanding; hey-ho, let’s begin to get on

just this one time all

over

again … and again.”

 

But she’d suffered so much, and been

placed under so much damn pressure, and she’d

come out on top of the pressure they’d evil-like exerted,

that anything else that hurted that much … well … no longer

did it hurt enough to make her miss their touch.

 

And so to T she did say an ultimate goodbye; and

to K she did vow never to pithily direct one

single email more in any kind of

spirit of good; whilst to C any contact

was now simply out all

frame: for the pain they’d collectively gone and caused

her, after all this incomprehensible time, had

long been suffered and awfully dealt

with; had awfully been figured and long been

torn away

by; had finally been damaging beyond

any kind of repair; had left her

pulling crazily the strands

of love and

care; had simply made it quite impossible

to want to be together again

with those who’d chosen to abuse her soul, to

fuck her head, and

luck her life.

 

For there really was no more this triumvirate

could do to hurt her,

except inasmuch as they might confirm that

even R was a part of the terrible tale as being told; and

that even dear G knew just as

full well, in the supposed obfuscation of her

weird and strange memory, exactly what was going on, exactly what

was what; that in fact every player was actually part of

some plot: not

just randomly living their curious lives out there, but actually,

truly, collaborating fully in her pain, and her insanity and her

ability and her need to say no: no to the violents

who were violating her space:

no to the continued rape they were committing so dreadfully:

no to that committing of hate so dreadfully on that

beautiful body and mind, still

sound, still fair, still happy and content, which about

and around her person did still revolve, and

did still persist, despite the

existence of all the

shit.

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