Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

My mother wants me to see a surgeon.

It came as no surprise
even if she knows how I feel on the subject.

I considered the topic closed
and did the first pullup I had even tried in two years.

That was something.
I'll assume for now something possitive.

It was an odd moment. A taunting
daunting
fingergrip

and a defiant urge to reach
stretch
and hold

Ease.
Weightless.
Fear.

What have I been doing since?
Really?

Another brick
ton
to push.

Another vile, empty sunrise to face.

Another vapid whore riding the shoulders of a well dressed, fair faced chap.
And chap certainly wasn't my first word choice.
Giggling under an orange sun.
Gliding on.
Without a god damn care in the world.

Meanwhile I stain my fingers, and scrape leathery scrips and round purple bruises on my thighs.

A receding hairline
and a cross exhaustion with purity.
A dry hack, a wet spit on the pavement.

Continue to lie with a grin, a nod, a wave.
And if I have to
a smile.

There's not much bitterness.
Just a sense of loss, and fact.

Not unlike a beloved bauble falling from a keychain into a stranger's couch.
Or youth splintering and fraying under the burning refuse of anger.

I could have...

Why not now?