Wednesday, August 11, 2010

They flee from me

Words escape me.  I stuff them full with the meaning of my thoughts, but they thin, empty, dissipate like smoke over time or water on the way out of my mouth.  And, hanging there in mid-air, they bear such little resemblance to their former selves that I cannot believe them to be the same. 

I look around, wondering where they came from:  floating there, wearing my voice, dressed up for all the world like my thoughts.  But they are none of mine.

Changeling, perhaps.  Or child swapped by an envious nurse while I was sleeping.  Or maybe, having drunk too much, I passed out and was assaulted, deprived of my long-guarded meaning and left with this rape-child in my arms.

Can I disclaim it?  This partly-of-me thing?  There's nothing else now.  And much as I stare and strain to remember, I cannot say what happened.  No res ipsa here, for who would believe this outlandish story.  Better I intended it.  Better I claim the thing, monster or no.

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