Purple Ink

The letter came
I don’t know when
it may have just magicked itself in
from another dimension
I wasn’t looking for it
….not exactly
but when I saw it I knew
 it was all I knew
all I had ever known and would ever know again
and my atavistic DNA rose up in defense
as I felt my world start to tip over
slide
at the smell of the envelope
the scent of something young and fresh and exciting and not-me
the sight of purple ink handed me a disdain edged tool
 I wanted to hold it up and jeer 
but the words
the words
no gushing childish midlife crisis doll baby
this was a letter written in confidence
and in solidity by a woman
and that rock scree shifted underfoot a little more
a little faster
with my eyes wide and burning I tottered
waving it unsteadily as you came in and the nonchalance in your face
was the one scenario I hadn’t rehearsed
the reality
was that there would be no apology
I retreated
 I dug in deep 
and silent
because my camouflage was pleasant
and understanding
and I cooked meals
and washed clothes 
and polished little things in compliant niceness
see how good I am being? see how good I am?
See? SEE?
 and thought that I could hold on forever
padding along the walls unseen and small
I wrote too
 letters of erudition and entreaty and lofty forgiveness
love
please love me
I wrote and I ripped and crumpled and shredded
and wrote again
until I was wrung dry
until I wrote myself sane
wrote myself upright
and finally released you to the purple ink 
and watched with no expression as the overgrown termites mound of discarded letters caught fire
and burnt my flimsy bridges to the ground
@jayetomas2014
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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6 Responses to Purple Ink

  1. “until I wrote myself sane”…spectacular! Wonderful piece. Blessings!

  2. debra says:

    Fantastic piece of writing! Peace 🙂

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