Missive #113 – Scraping Down To The Bone

Missive #113 - Scraping Down To The Bone
Missive #113 - back
sent from: Waterloo Station, London, USA. destination: Corte Madera, California, USA

Another evening listening to praises sung to my sister and the many things that she does amazingly well. These praises were sung by my parents. Having concluded this, the attention turns to me and a different set of stories. Of how amusing I was a child with various hand puppets, how I said the funniest things when frustrated with this or that. And, of course, bed wetting stories. Lots and lots of those, it seems, far more than I could recall or of course remember, as they happened before I had any sense of myself. The stories are told with no malice or intention to hurt, but a thin layer comes off every time they are repeated; something sore is revealed. I can feel my nerve endings closer to the surface, fiery to the touch. Soon, all that’s left is the blood, waiting to be drawn.

It’s a Monday. I never used to have Monday blues, but I do now.

3 thoughts on “Missive #113 – Scraping Down To The Bone

  1. They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
    They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.

    But they were fucked up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,
    Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.

    Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
    Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.


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