What Doesn't Kill You

Prose Poem

WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

He reads my body like the opposite side of a road map, scars and veins and rutted palms scribbled in backward French under heavy lights; would he love me if he weren’t so lost? I used to believe that if I screamed and smashed and swore loud enough, long enough to deafen the neighbors, he’d respect me. I was sick to death of love.

 

 

My mother, who reads me like a blurred highway sign through a cracked windshield during a tropical storm, never hanged my up-do-date photograph, the only one in her possession whereas the others, if still in existence, she’d cram into a box on the back shelf of her closet as soon as I turned away. My father, just the same, stowing his packrat stacks of tests and lectures and everything but forty-five years of class portraits, plump sixth graders she’s never met ;  they join the babies, toddlers, and teens of great-nieces and nephews, the spawn of second, third, fourteenth cousins pasted to and blacking out every speck of white space on the side of the fridge, the grandchildren she’ll never have.

                                          

 

How long did you hope to maintain the charade? Ancient history, but the day you lay in the arms of your third and final girlfriend, senior year, and the brass mantel-top clock chimed so violently you both decided to silence it forever, she wasn’t fooled. She knew; she silenced herself. And here, years later, the harsh alarm of your lies pillage your memory, refurbish your fears although afterward she extended her friendship, immeasurably more than you deserved.

 

 

After misplacing your poems, your first boyfriend tore off his shirt in the cold hotel corridor and hurled it like an unfinished sentence to the floor. Fear, beginning with your lips , already startled in the dark by the tickle of his chest hair, rippled in rhythm to your breath, coincided with the hum of highway traffic. You separated in silence, an ending as sentimental as a misplaced pen. Stories never meant to be told.

 

 

Since then, despite rising triumphant from your daily battles, death has made a sport of drafting your demise, adding the stopped clock of your body to its sack of stacked poetry and framed photographs . But how, with which disease? The suspense is killing you. Reaching behind, you steal the blanket your mother tucked between the wall and the back of the couch, breathing the sweet artificial air of the central heater. Weak winter light creeps through the windows, What if there are no answers, no reasons; what if you’re nothing but motion mottled with adjectives and expletives that twirl in circles until you die? 

 

 

A public place is no scene for such deep thinking, particularly not the post office. The clerk weighs your package, the one with the reclaimed framed photograph. In two days it will find its way to your best friend’s mailbox and after that, cracked and cocooned within the garbage seeping from beneath her bed, it will again be forgotten. Meanwhile, your mother won’t ask about its absence. She’ll never realize, and at last you’ll have unlocked a couple of life’s most cruel and liberating lessons: Love is only as perfect as the person professing it; love is measured in direct proportion to the physical beauty of the receiver.

Reviews

[Fran Marie]

o h Seth..this is a poignant
piece ..i wish your
mother had taken
you in her arms and
had comfort you..soothing
your aching heart..listening
as parents should
absorbing their sons
pain..instead of shoving
your essence/pictures
In a box..as a mother
your suppose to help
not hurt; but nourish

no one should feel
such rejection from
their love ones..sorry
such hurt was aimed
your way..you say it well
I feel an empty void within
this piece..

[Seth Cason]

Thank you, Fran Marie. As for my parents having no grandkids and the family name invariably ending with me, well, I think I'll let my only sibling, my brother who's basically a whole generation older, take the rap for that, as he has no excuse. Yeah...

Anyway, take care Fran Marie-- I smell food so I have to peace the fork out.

Seth

[Fran Marie]

you re s o welcome
Seth
I don't send out read
requests or accept
them..i will find
your work;

[barleygirl]

Your writing is distinctive & unique . . . never seen anyone write about love/heartache topics as honestly as this! Very vivid, with imagery that punches the reader with meaning & relatability (((HUGS)))

[Seth Cason]

Hi Barleygirl-- thank you for this. I'm always unprepared for a review that's sincerely encouraging. It also packs a punch, so I suppose we're even. (Hugs back--- no lawsuits)

[Chris Shaw]

Your prose is incredibly poignant and I acknowledge the pain that little boy experienced.

Who has lessons in parenting? I think I had far more in geometry which I never used in adult life. Couples don:t set out to be shite parents, some just are. Usually because their parents before them weren't much cop either. If you were a sensitive child like I was you will remember All the hurts. Some kids have awful childhoods, suffering violence and mental abuse. Some suffer neglect which isn't always intentional, they just have parents pre-occupied with other stuff, like getting the money in to pay the bills. Some parents are just useless at showing love. Some don't know how to hug.

As I got older I understood my hurts weren't intentional. They were very young and had the first 3 of us by the time they were 21. As they got older they improved. By the time I reached late teens I was beginning to think how lucky I was.

Am I making excuses for them with their early parenting. Yes I am because I loved them for their mistakes. Am I stronger because of what I experienced? Yes I am. Did I learn from my experiences? Yes I did. Have I forgiven them for my early neglect? Yes I have. Would they have been hurt to know how I felt? Yes they would.

That photograph that you took. I reckon your mum would have known it was missing.

Why am I telling you all this? Maybe because you struck a chord with your post and I felt the need to share.

Chris

[Seth Cason]

Chris--

If I struck a chord, no matter how painful, I suppose that should be a lesson to all of us about the power of the written word. Have you ever finished reading a book and then, after closing it, you just sort of sit there in the drooling daze? As writers, that's what we should all aspire towards.

(Yawn) it's 12:40 and I have to be up by 4 am. Thanks again, and we'll talk, I mean write tomorrow.

Seth

[lightsong]

the great example of how parents affect their children in ways no one knows but the child himself.

imagine how it feels to grow up feeling unloved, neglected, unaccepted, unworthy... what will become of the little boy who now becomes a man? no kidding that to live a torture childhood might take long years to be healed from, even if You forgot the memories they are stored inside You, and they have shaped You in a way or another. what father or what mother who don't know their own child and his truth? what father or what mother who favor other children over theirs? how they can give love to others but not to theirs? yes, unfortunately there are these kinds in this world, in that situation, You (the character of your piece) needed someone to understand and listen to You before even loving You, someone You could trust and lean on when it seemed so confusing and painful for You, and no wonder if he needed more to create his own haven, his own safe place (we all need and do) from his ink and papers.

the hurtful truth is Love what the other person can give You, not what You are giving them, the other hurtful one, the pleasure of physical instead of spiritual, yes I hear You my friend, You want someone to love your heart, your mind, your soul before your body, give love equally as You do. and I know everyone on this earth has their right one, they sooner or later will appear.

stay strong, creative and loving~

[lightsong]

I must add too, the title is a truly brilliant one, You said it all in it.

[Seth Cason]

You are the best. Thank you (and Mr. Coffee) for kickstarting my weekend on an empowering note.

[Seth Cason]

And if you're baffled by my avatar-- well, nothing else what fit so I said, meh, to hell with it.

[lightsong]

oh! so it's the weekend? LOL sorry I lost my sense of time (good thing though ;) )

[lightsong]

"And if you're baffled by my avatar-- well, nothing else what fit so I said, meh, to hell with it. "

Hahaha NO I think it suits your personality, we all have our crazy side (including me of course ) si don't be so surprised when mine shows UP LOL

[Seth Cason]

I'm looking forward to it! Unless you really are a silhouette ghost-person-- but even that would be awesome.

[lightsong]

hhhaaa You ARE REALLY FUNNY :D unfortunately I am a real person (You can see my face in my photos here) but the good news that I have some magical power and I can turn into "invisibility" BE AWARE AND PREPARED! LOL

[Coyote Poetry]

I enjoyed the story. The lessons of love. Never-ending journey to learn. Love is rare.
"Love is only as perfect as the person professing it; love is measured in direct proportion to the physical beauty of the receiver."
The above lines are solid and true. Thank you Seth for sharing your strong and worthwhile thoughts. I will return later and read more.
Coyote

[Seth Cason]

Thank you! You know, after I abandoned city life a while back, I became such an isolated and unmotivated writer that forgot how beneficial a community like this can be. Thankfully I have all of tomorrow free to read and review until my head explodes. Thanks for your kind words. They really do make difference.

Seth