Leaky Words

Leaky Words

I’ve snuck into the kitchen and prepared myself an egg and sausage. I did it elusively and guiltily because I felt bad about shunning the offering of limp salad and greasy fish sticks my mother brought to me. Now I sit here wolfing my hastily cooked meal quickly so I don’t get caught, it isn’t that I think my mother would be angry or punish me, but she would be sad in that vacant sort of way she has. I stop for a moment and look at the mess on my plate… the egg is to runny, clear gelatin peaking from the thin film of white-cookedness … the sausage is a little pink in the center, and I set my fork down… .Great…I think of the viruses and diseases you can get from raw meat and eggs…. ecoli, salmonella…jerardia?... No you get jerardia from bad water….I can’t help the suspicious look I give my drinking mug. Oh well, I really don’t care if I get sick and die I feel like the white princess in the book I’ve finished, all cold and meaningless, what does it matter if I don’t wake up in the morning?

I remember now that I have to hurry with my food, I poke the leaking egg with my finger and more fluid comes rushing out, it reminds me of words and how they just spill out of me and seem to be unstoppable… all kinds of words… loud angry spoken words… and the frustrated whiney words too, written like this. Words just seem to seep out of my skin staining and coloring everything they touch. This picture leads inevitably to the other one… the bleeding words, all red as roses sinking them selves into the white purity of the paper… or skin. Yes that is it, that is the deal with words, they are born in a mind and once born hardly ever do they remain jailed in their prisons. They slip down the tongue soft and silky and are absorbed into the air… or they find my fingers and become momentarily immortal, driven into paper… but most of my words (the dark one’s usually) take possession in my blood and spill themselves into life on sharp surfaces… this is their ultimate desire because they are really the only ones that throw themselves into the world whole and with a life all their own (borrowed as it is)… but not all words are spoken, written, or bled… some still are cried in crystal drops of salt (but these soon dry up)… and still others are sent out in forbidden lusty ways, these words drip faintly down the inside of legs, escaping the core of heat from whence they came. Words, born in the mind… invade my body seeking to escape leaking through every available crack. In the end a persons words are what makes them…. but I can’t help wondering into my revolting egg… where does that leave me?

more in the line of random thoughts and side tracked trails