Sunday, February 3, 2013


Pathology: it is not the intention of a path; it is the path of the disease. The two are often confused. His pathology is far-reaching; it reaches out beyond his bones and into mine, and into me. His loathing loads across the wires, a telegram telling me I am not who I once was. I am not who I once was. It is pathological.

Misery loves company and we're an infirmary. We're firm in our armory. We've got all kinds of worded weapons for each other and ourselves. To protect our co-bedding; but this is not symbiosis, it is simply parasitic. I am trying to get well again; I cannot get well for us both. His poison seeps into the safety of coming up close. I'm getting loaded alone, grasping for ways to dull the pain. But nothing cures a cancer that can metastasize in time.

We are growing older, but wiser none the same. His pathology reaches out to me, like a desperate plea for reprieve. His loathing loads across the wires, I'm a telegram disconnected; the message is there forevermore but lost in translation. There's nothing left but a handful of beeps blaring out into space. And the space between grows and grows at such a disparate pace.

I am growing out of him, a cantilevered mass, like a bowlby baby who needs to be cut out of some suffocating grasp. I need him 'cause he needs me.

The pathology is deep here; it is far-reaching. Loneliness is never intended. It just comes and grows and gains and goes from whence it came: Alone. So I'll tether myself to the wires all around me, and I'll double down, as swift as tension will subscript. He pulls at me; coiling and uncoiling. There is no simple path, simply the pathology of some terminal disease. Our intentions are all moot now; we are pathological.

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