Friend, I have made ways apon the docklands, dry Santa Apolónia. Eyes to ocean, out the window obstructed, landbridge over trainlines, catching myself gripping the table. I am bringing the pen down with shooting pains up my arm. I am not grieving, even thru deathrites. I am only the blood of blood, pulled across worlds. Mind runner, hot flashes strike me, rifling thru pages ever quicker.
I wake with the fear.
At least I can speak of discarding the world eater, emptying the container into a toilet bowl; at least I left the apartment today. Yet, I never remember being so deeply buried whenever I find myself underground, always feeling I've not seen such depth before. The first encounter with primevil.
//~//~//~//
Both of my father's parents passed over the month. She was first, on the new moon. & He, two weeks later apon the fullbright. I've never known them closely, but was ever grateful to have already been living in Portugal as it happened, taking short journeys to the south as we set them ablaze. Nonetheless, I feel displaced, confronted by the great loss in unfamiliar land, a world apart from my tropic deities.
So, the week moves on & I look for guidance in the cobble, I look out to an unfamiliar ocean. Unsure how to move but slowly I shift, sometimes catching
glance of myself, seeing the fear as its own entity, resin coating the corners of my belly, emitting vapours throughout, depriving me of air.
But I see it.
I love you.
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