Mountain Cove Forest

Now, let me explain myself, I’m a damaged good. But, at least I didn’t murder, rape . . . or, was it . . . ? I can’t fathom the sleep; the dead show so many features of some undefinable twist . . . did I kill them? Rape? Was it . . . moi . . . but, not me? Brought back the ghosts, I did? Beckett, Hemingway, the others . . . and, I said it wouldn’t happen: me, happy! All of the influences, and I’m crisp enough to cut, to kill. I killed them. I ravaged them? They’re dead, insane, gone. He’s gone, too. Why? Why did they do that? I couldn’t help it, after the bad times. I couldn’t stay, put, kneel; like the loyal old dog. And, am I still living, alive, awake? Here, here, I think that I am. So, why did they do that? Doesn’t Jesus say . . . ? No. Not perchance, only ‘here.’ It starts here. It always does. I think a though, and . . . they’re dead, the dying faster than most. I, though? Here. Make it as minimalistic as possible, then, cut! Don’t get me wrong, I’m a murderer—a, ‘thou shall kill,’ if necessary. Necessary, as always, as it always has been, necessary. Why did God put me here with all of them, and then tell me to, well, sit? I sat. So, I thought. I talked to terrorists, those who terrify, and, well, I killed them. In my dreams? No, as a veteran. It started more than a decade ago now, the killing, for me, my role . . . unbecoming of a lady. That’s right! I’m a woman! A woman who was raped, over and over. Why can’t that be the reason? I’m dead. They killed me, too; too many years unkept . . . and, not a woman. No make-up. No dresses. No high heels, or those delicate braziers. I’m unkept, almost a man. I gave up all of that girly stuff for sin, for sin’s sake; I wanted to be alive, well, alive, alive, living . . . and, now, look what I’ve done; I’ve killed, but not as a civilian would, as a warrior does. And, I’m a damaged good. Let me explain my position, more so.