The Fringe

There is no zip code for her,
no snugshut windows
no locked doors keeping back the dark.
No walls to hang a calender,
or diploma,
and there is no reflective glass
or bathroom mirror she would dare to look into…
The Edges of Society,
the Fringe…
that all sounds much neater,
 and more finely mapped,
much more
solid,
than it is.
For her 
or anyone
to dwell there
isn’t a matter of address,
of forwarding mail,
of deciding between curtains or mini blinds.
It’s not hiring a creaking moving van  
with cracked vinyl seats.
It’s both a clutching,
and a letting go,
freefalling,
but you don’t jerk awake before the impact.
There is no last second saving you from the repeated collisions,
and the constant bruising,
and the notches chipped from your spine, 
are the only way of marking the time….
3AM
The drinkers hour,
the hour of remorse,
is what her whole life consists of.
There is no downward spiral for the outcast,
nothing so quick,
so linear.
It’s a perpetual hanging,
a neck stretched like screaming glass but not quite broken.
It’s a hovering,
in stasis midway between surface air and cold, dark depths
the almost drowned,
with no blessed unconsciousness.
A purgatory.
A half life,
or half death,
and she sometimes cuts herself to see if she still bleeds,
it being the only thing she has left to offer…
And her head plays funny tricks, shifting her here and now to
somewhere,
sometime
else.
And she has conversations with people who aren’t there,
that sting like a thousand yellowjackets.
The pain no less for being only in her mind,
for that is the tenderest place…
The welts raised there
can last a lifetime
and never heal.
Learned articles list ponderous footnotes about slipping through the cracks,
but she never slipped,
she was pushed ,
as she turned her head to see what was chasing her, 
(this time),
its maw opened and swallowed her whole,
spitting out the bits that could be sold for scrap.
Living on the edge means she lives in a maelstrom
round and round
the periphery a rough draft,
an ever-changing, eroding boundary,
that she may seize for a slight and fragile moment,
dangling,
dizzy,
a fleeting glimpse of sky and light,
but her ropeburned hand can’t grip,
and the momentum claims her once again,
the rapacious Fringe greedily gathers her back
©jayetomas2015
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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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3 Responses to The Fringe

  1. Reblogged this on Barrow Blogs: and commented:
    Love this work

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