the white holes that elude us

by spootasia tomoe

--

--

broken

they can do it

and they’ll leave you spinning

idly on a negative axis

staring at what you were

feeling the stumps of your fingers

and wondering

if you should be angry

because you used to paint

--

anything to build a bridge

but it’s not working

you can’t remember

what you ever saw in colors

or in creation

--

everything feels

like it’s out of some black and grey war movie

maybe one about the holocaust

the kind that when you visit the real place

you’re startled that the skies are still blue

that people’s lips are still red

grass is still green and the sun is still blinding

but you’re not startled anymore

you’re just confused

you can’t remember what color

goes with what name

and if you made it up

or if it always looked this way

--

it’s like when you try to look into the past

and can’t tell what is from who you were

who you confabulated to save yourself

and who they left you as

the one that shatters

as easily as glass

but it doesn’t startle you

the fragmentation

and disintegration

of the pieces someone once called your soul

because you’re farther now on a different line

that is limitless in its isolation

so you don’t connect because you don’t know how

so that there are sides to yourself

except one of them is lost and the other isn’t real

and all you can do is nothing but pretend

that you recall the taste of bruised coffee as

you fall into the black hole

and spaghettify and spin with dust and light

and a million planets you’ve never seen

but that everyone said you’ve always liked

and maybe you die, you can’t tell,

you’ve forgotten how to speculate on things like that

so you just fall

like they taught you

and wait to come out the other side