Obliterate

Obliterate

Dana Zillgitt

Tell me again how you obliterate the very meaning of family. Tell me again how it’s supposed to be all about you this Christmas season. Tell me again how it’s supposed to be all fun and games when you’re bleeding out the trachea and you’re trying to speak. I wish I could tell you it was all fun and games when they shot you but I’m not sure it is anymore. I wish I was more articulate in saying my opinions around you but I’m not and I can’t speak anymore. I wish I could tell you you’re so unbelievably wrong it’s grotesque. But I can’t. I don’t know the words anymore, I can’t find the dictionary fast enough to tell you what’s going on in this fucked up brain of mine and I can’t find the words in the thesaurus to get all the synonyms out quick enough. But I wish I could. I need my fingertips to be nimbler, to be quicker, to be working on overdrive so I could breathe in and exhale some wisdom onto your feeble ears. But I’m not sure if I can. I don’t know if I know how to exactly. There’s no manual for this feeling. There’s no guide for what I’m experiencing and I’m not quite sure how to write the words onto a page or make sure they flow in ink and dead trees. I wish I could though. I so wish I could make these feelings into letters, sounds, and words that you could feel right into your core, right into your soul. But I think I lost that ability to do so a long, long time ago. And I don’t think muscle memory is going to cut it anymore. 

Because I still freeze when somebody even mentions your name. And I still flinch a storm when somebody brushes against my shoulder late at night.

Tiny Apartments

Tiny Apartments

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