l'esprit de l'escalier

I should probably just say I'm not alright alright it's not that easy.

But I should explain. Summers and summers spent by s
Mine
It was my
"A that stands in my heart
My cathedral of silence
Every morning recaptured in dream
Every evening abandoned
A covered with dawn
Open to the winds of my youth."

[broke]
en
dans l'esprit de l'escalier [dans? en?]
It probably is too late, actually. Going off with friends' families' holidays not my own not even my own apostrophes but out of pity and never allowed to invite them not never allowed nor willing but their parents would ward them off from my windows, their windows me from their glass. Glad.

Some stray now backs
Up whining
In the fear that preludes the severance of several se-
Conds of anguish before
It is done.
Debilitated, or hopefully
Ended. I'd like to say it's worth a shot.

(Bad joke, sorry.)

Didn't have many others
but books
mostly. It's easier to write
like this
[fragments
less damaged or more
something whole can be pieced out of it-
no, each shard a whole story on its own
more capable to cut
words and swords
]a story
Easier to remain when not in the when not with the parents the basement or attic the thick walls the tree in the back of the garden and all the other burnt or before burnt with lines scored into them as if chains had bitten their way into the bark bark barking at my fears iseasier than silence. Mine. Sometimes I wanted to run away you know just blow go row everywhere not there not I. 
Seeking something resembling symmetry. But but but when I was me there were the pans and clinking and the knives and bruises hahaha oh god I lied don't believei  can't finish that sentence

Forget the pills
Forget the lost memories
(wish I couldn't)
"ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇ. Very dangerous."

I know they're still plotting even though he's gone brother sister mother plotting girlfriend plotting blonde hair plotting The Garden plot shows black earth still if the ash isn't gone but I don't think the wind's come yet. My window's open. People are singing Happy Birthday outside, better blow out out their brief candle, but I can't make out the voices, who's whose who. An owl? Just the tone. No words. No subject. All signs. A guttural masculine voice warbling, half-snatched by the air. Better that way.

But this way,
what was the story?
Terza rima

Because I'm being dragged,
Faltering,
By ways my eye bags sag

Haltering,
The way my motions stay
Wavering

The sense of going a[way.
 ]

All surrounding me.      A shimmering. I can grin now. If I move an inch I'll crease the paper of my notes. Don't want that one  bit, so I make sure never to move. Pad of paper right here, I can add to the rows and rows of paper circling overlapping overlying underlieing and I won't sleep because then I might fall into it and through it, though the initial into it not such a problem- OH

The story

not a friend or a fear to find if I indulge
wrong word, just to fit the terza,
if I inhabited
(yes)
books
instead.

Suppose it began with teachers actually
no not Plato Aristotle Heraclitus-
 school. Not a friend when you scent of things long dried
but the little boy's Lizzie brain looking for approval finds the teacher curriculum books find him and he reads to get good grades to get good smiles to get good nods and it grows familiar with weekends and work and weekends and work and work alone the girl in Greece and someone else and he thought it might not end that she or he would go or when the colour faded that the sunlightlier memories at least would stay but "SHE SAID MEMORIES MEAN ALL BUT THEY ARE ALL DEAD" and characters too alive in the head reread or maybe something chemical there broke like a glow stick twig

just snapped one day
no reason

or perhaps the long  build up of a

break
another kind of snapped
scar formed long ago
reopened now
somehow.

In the fall the wind the drop
the reaching hand only scratches like a claw.

That's All.