“For fools rush in where angels fear to tread”–Alexander Pope
There is a black band of mourning wrapped around my heart. I think sometimes I might remove it, slice through it, tear it from its place. Perhaps a razor worked under, a swift slice, a flick of the wrist and it will all be over.
I think of the heart it encircles, a tiny fist sized muscle of limited ability. It cannot think, it cannot reason; it beats and bleeds and breaks.
I think of Monet and his willows, weeping for dead soldiers. I think of Frida and her jarred baby, killed by its own womb. Models that cannot object to being painted. Symbols that cannot speak. I have been only the hope of expression, the bound heart with its purposeless emotion. The nothing.
Here we stop. In silence. No beating no remembering no thinking. Here we cease pulsating with dreams undreaming, memories forgetting, the end unwriting back to its beginning. Full circle the black circle remains. Intact, unbroken, lonely and unyielding.
There is a black band of mourning wrapped around my heart. I think sometimes I might remove it, slice through it, tear it from its place.