The pornography of despair

She begins each poem with tears. Like the end
of a conversation where you have learned
someone has died, the words leave you empty.
Because she thinks her spirit has done the cruelest
thing, leaving her hollow and sad, she has accepted
the loneliness the way one accepts all tragedy: stoic
and bitter, both. Memory stretches inside her thoughts
but she pushes those voices away. They are the enemy
and she will not speak to them. She is hungry but instead
of food she eats medication. Refuses to look for peace.
All things are in flux around her because her vision
trembles in this grim atmosphere. The lack of permanence
frightening. She denies herself the small joys and will not
read about how the last bus stopped just in time
on the dark road, missing the fawn fixed at the side
in the light of the high beams. The lack of death
is so disconcerting that her poem bleeds words
into empty space, the lines filled eventually
with strange and unreadable symbols. Sorrow
repeated over and over until the voice of the poem
flickers quietly into silence, the comfort of loss
her only meaningful companion.

© 2007 Christine Klocek-Lim

More writing

14 pages yesterday. 16 pages today. I can see why writing a novel takes so freaking long. It feels like only a few minutes have passed, but in reality it’s been three hours. And now my left eye is twitching. Time to stop, exercise, eat lunch.