love's bitter days

Today's a day for fury as each word struggles to make it through razor wire filter of self-annhihalation that none of this could be good enough - the great dichotomy that nothing is good enough though some parts find it harder than others to bear to see through and still remain vital not put off reckoning til later but go deeper below the haze and accept accept that the sludge is love just as finger running your hip, 3 days with you in bed or other fantasies to invent to persuade myself that this is not happening the rage is nowhere near the churning, aching stabbing - could not be anything as its cause sitting here in rage the pure fear that this really is it your life that you dreamed, pretended and modelled has come to a sitting room in Leith that's not your own and there's nowhere you can go, no one you can call that can make it one ounce better, no worse! to hear patronising cried that 'you're not yourself' or 'you'll get through' well fuck you right through with your denying of your own life I see SEE what fucking futility this is all is that your manicures and suburban fantsasies make you sicker than the molesting priest who, for his sins, had the courage to do them before God, but God's no good for you, with your fig leaves in the garden pretending when it all comes down that we have each other HEY! you DON't you are so completely alone even as your husband lechers and you make sly flirtations with young men before the school run takes you again into your own sludge and you fucking ask that life not may be not good for me - jealously guarded freedom is a far rarer herb than you're likely to taste however bitter, devoid of stability and the instruments of the good life it may be - though we made it up in Cambridge enclosures our time too is passed.