If It's All Steel

I'm not sorry. The inky night made me do it and I'm not sorry. You have no idea how alone I was in that car, in that hand-me-down sunbird, in that bucket seat, behind those headlights, in that alley. The night was a maw. You have no idea. I'm not sorry. What would you have done? You would have turned off your high beams and rolled your window down too. What is it about certain moments that stay with us, that stain us so deeply, corrupt us so irrevocably? Is it how sharp the stars are when they happen? How heavy and cold the steel? How folding and accommodating the shadows, how still the white curtains? If there are curtains. If there are white curtains and a breeze, you can know you're making a choice. If it's all steel and discs you couldn't lift on your own, you know you're in trouble. Benches are a bad sign, as are men too comfortable with pockets. 

When you have to walk by them and it's like diving with sharks, it's a bad sign, but I'm not sorry. Because where were you? Where was your better judgement? You were just enjoying a theatre show. Shame on you. I don't even need to cast shame on you. I'm not sorry. I would've done it even if you weren't there; I'm allowed to own that. I'm not sorry, not sorry, not sorry. 

She says, feeling deep sorriness in her bones. Feeling sand where her blood should be. Rolling down that window and turning around and driving and parking and the moon and steel and walking home, or feeling like I was walking home. Alone in the universe, under all the lights. Where were you? Where were you? Comfy in bed while I was being filled with spiders. Being shown just exactly how the world is and what a wolf feels like under his fur.

This piece was written inside our live circle.

If your body holds a charge you long to release without having to get into anything, my process can help.

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