It comes up
a relief
released
unmet dreams
turned rancid
in the heat
of waiting.
Jigsaw pieces
of curdled desire
harboured past
their due date
in the belly
of the
wrong
woman.
Each heave
the birth
of another
nonviable
monstrosity.
The handle,
cold against
a sweaty palm,
the mechanism
gives into
the banality
of human
plumbing.
Flushed into
the sewers
with all
the other
stillborn
sacrifices
to romance.
This is such a raw piece, full of the ‘banality’ of bitterness, the waste of it, the language is so dismissive, without sentiment, but you end on the word ‘romance.’ This is really, to me, what distinguishes good writing from bad – it takes you somewhere and leaves you with too many thoughts and images. It almost makes you feel abandoned, shivering.
It’s profound stuff.
I’m sorry you felt abandoned. That was really not my intention, nor do I set out to do that to readers. I don’t think it’s right.
I did mean it in a ‘good’ way – I didn’t feel personally abandoned, but there is something devastating about this tale, the way it wanders, almost desultory, to its end. That’s what I mean by profound. Your writing has impact and leaves marks. My best compliment.
Ah, okay. Because I read stuff that sometimes does make me feel like the author trailed off having decided not to give a fuck about how they left you. Thank you for the compliment.