Obstinate.

It wasn't like losing an eye in the midst of having fun-
The splinter slipped in quietly, nestling under her skin. It wasn't til later, with the hot sun setting on another summer afternoon, that it made itself known. The day had been great as usual- escaping the house for the entire day always was. They would play in the empty block at the end of the street, take trips to the corner shop to slurp ice-blocks that were blissfully inexpensive, lay down on the baking concrete driveway, pretending they could shrink clouds into nothingness (simply finding shapes in the sky wasn't enough for them).

It wasn't til later, pulling the garden gate closed behind her, she felt the tiny, throbbing pain that was the fraction of wood that had become a part of her. Squinting, she examined her finger.

She pushed her forefinger gently with her thumb. Thrilling at the jolt of hurt she felt. The culprit had been found. She was shocked by the ache this tiny fleck of black could cause. Biting her lip, she considered her options. No doubt- the splinter had to be removed. She couldn't bear the thought of it finding its way into her blood stream, destined to pierce her heart. It had enough puncture wounds as it was.


The missing car meant her mum wasn't home from work yet, but the electrical buzz of the tv alerted her to the fact that her father was. There was a time she would have called out for his help. Needed him.
Once upon a time. But it was hard to remember that far back.

The splinter throbbed again. It was annoyed her thoughts had strayed.

Ignoring the imminent tears, she raised her finger to her lips and sucked out the poison.

Impossibility.

Everything is always different with you.

I would that I could will you into a soldier of my own battle tactics...whittle your mute point - always sheathed - into something infinitely more blunt.

But there is no changing you.

It always begins with a splinter. With a small injury you derive from the ceaseless sawdust I rattle off in oblivity, six syllables to the second.

The point of entry is unremarkable - a thin layer of skin acting as trapdoor to the earthy intrusion. Mole-like, it burrows deep into your flesh until tightly lodged, and invisible to the anxious steel tweezers I set a-pinching. I am adept at getting under your skin.

Cannot this be the end of things? If only you would alert me to your casualty, that you would holler and scream, your face a blueberry mess. If only you would force your hand before my face and have me study every tender blemish. I'd have the mongrel out in a second!

But you prefer to hide those hands inside kid gloves that bunch, childlike, into fists within the denim walls of your pockets. You allow the splinter to fester into a vividly crimson Vesuvius - just as lethal to the citizen. Infected, the hand swells monsterously, until your entire, unfamiliar self pulses with septicemic rage. It does not become you.

Frustrated and with sharpened silver at the ready, I begin to dig, desperate to loosen your tongue.

Your hurts become evident, they become airborne as you spit hardened chips at me to catch me unaware. You aim for the eyes, but I assure you, they are already incapable of seeing. Before long, and long before I have a hope of curing you, you harden against me into wood that bruises my hands as they reach out to you.

You are angry - drained of yourself, and dry enough to please an eager tinderbox.

And I - I am left, battered and unhappy, in wait of your fickle magnanimity.

What exactly have I done to you this time?

Procrastinator Savant.

I will. I will. I will.

The syllables appeal, and roll
off the tongue like marbles
on an oil-slicked slope. Like
bare bottoms on a well-waxed
slippery slide.
I delight in the concept of later,
and find no gift in the present.
It is the open mail that arrived
an hour ago - unfulfilling and dull.
It cannot be imagined into something
more - not farfetched isoscoli of
love, nor a polished script pegged
to the stern black line as it's antithesis.
There's time a-plenty. Anything could
happen ten minutes from now.
Until then, I think it best to
toast the meantime with a crystal
glass, cherry-topped and guarded from
the rain.

I will. I will. I will.

Indubitably.
Eventually.
Ultimately.

Obs.

I smooth my hand over the glossy cover.
I pick it up. I fan the pages.
I flick through it again and again-
inhaling that timeless 'book' scent.

I bite my lip, thinking about what's happened, what's happening- what is going to happen.

I leave this blog unfinished because, I am obsessed, and I have a book to read.