rigor mortis

There is a puddle where my personality once existed. my feet are wet, pruned really..
I'm staring at an orange on my desk in this listless computer light, wondering..can I compare any part of me to this lovely orange? really...we have nothing in common. Not even in our common decline.

I am fucked like a rock who wants to run. Resistance has honed me into Stiff Girl, superhero of I Don't Want. The little therapist stands to the side and tells the class of superhero resisters "just let go of the rope of defense and fall" We look at each other and back to her. I say, "Only if death follows, sister."

I stand with my hands tightly fisted around a box of matches in a crowd of freezing people. The light is blue and fading, everything left in view is white with snow. The lumber is there, stacked, waiting. Gas is there to pull the flames higher. Feeble attempts are made to pry my hands apart. No effort, subtle, warm, harsh or aggressive wakes me from rigid desperation.

I have watched cities of dying people in the eyes of my sad, exhausted lover, fall to the ground and turn to dust. I have watched her watch me burn her constitutions, maim her elderly and turn from the weeping lonely pain of the desperate with gestapo ease.

I have never met someone like me that I liked. And I judged them. I guess being terribly defensive, morbidly competitive limits my skill of humility.

Apparently, I really need matches.
Obviously, I am the cities of dying people and constitutions. Weeping, lonely, desperate. Devour the evidence.