My Shared Schism
Kristine Hawes
[Lyrics in bold/italics, by Tool – “Schism”, from the CD: 'Lateralus']
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
Your hand on my side, innocent and naïve I took it into my own, straddled you, waited for you to get hard. I felt it through your jeans – wanted to open you up, right there, smell the musk, taste your sweetness. Sweetness. Anticipation of the next time, that’s what it was. Anticipation tastes like copper and white clouds. Dreams. You pushed me aside. We had to talk. About our relationship.
No more copper and clouds, no smell of musky skin and the taste of you. No more. Must leave – to run away from the termination of my heart. I can’t escape the heat and the beating heart. Once excited, more excited, my lust suddenly dead - its last dance can’t be remembered now. When was the last time we fucked? You’ve even ripped that memory from me – I always thought there’d be a next time.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
I wanted to take the truck and dive into whatever hillside would have me. I didn’t care where I ended up. Anywhere away from you. Hurt so bad to have my passions snuffed, like a lethal overdose on ugliness. Like consequences unknown. A whore cheating her pimp. Power wasn’t part of it – it was always how you made me feel. Your fault, you said. That was something I gave you willingly. Blame and fault. Asshole. Hate. Fear. So alone. You and I were so fucking good and so good at fucking. Then it became real and hard and denied love. How where we going to fit this all back together?
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
Dissonance was the sound of crying in the silence that followed.
There was no beauty in it. It hurt; scabs and scars and ill-healed wounds. My heart was a Picasso of put-together pieces – blue and brown and red with stale blood. I looked at it – a sculpture of something ordinary and broken. All hearts are ordinary and broken – nothing so special about mine. Used as everyone else is used. I wanted you to start working on the scars, to heal the painful parts, take out the broken bits. Seal up the cracks and tears. Bastard. There wasn’t anyone else who could do that. No one. No choice. I had to let you back into the room with me.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
You now sit comfortably in your lawn chair watching the sun rise over my heart again, a cool drink in your hand. We sit there together, watching how the feelings come around me, circle me, and affect me. I don’t think you take the joy in me that you used to – you’re softer now, kinder. Is there more love in you? I wonder if you realize that you’ve helped the scars. There is something fearful in letting you in again, to setup house. That’s what I’ve done – made you a homemaker in my heart. For fucking good or evil, the best of me and the worst, I’m keeping you for life.
I don’t second guess your being. In there, there are only one or two others. You are in elite company. You have more of me than I ever anticipated giving you – again. I’ve turned the tide and wonder what you have in store for me. My storied heart continues to beat, despite the misshapen skin. The muscle is strong.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers/brothers
Never the silence, not again. Never the cold, not again. Words and heat – so much of both. I’ll find compassion, maybe inside you inside me. Teach me to forgive and give again. Maybe more than before this whole thing started.
Supposed lovers. So supposed, any longer? Touch me. Let’s find out.
© Kristine Hawes, July 7, 2005