Jillison. What contours now are clearer than what came before?
You’ve been drinking all night (and day). Still repeating to me the same secret you can’t (won) t tell anyone else. Plague water still your only map of nothing to say.
Latitude. Longitude. Center of your eye like a compass screaming at me.
Orbital floor fractures were investigated and described by MacKenzie in Paris in 1844 and the term blow out fracture was coined in 1957 by Smith & Regan, who were investigating injuries to the orbit and resultant inferior rectus entrapment, by placing a hurling ball on cadaverous orbits and striking it with a mallet.
You just want to ignore as much as you can. Go on and on about black me out weather, mistrust, language backing up into empty space. Saying to me over and over, I don’t ever want this or that to be us.
I remember you Jillison. Awake with your maps, north and blind, south and unable to breathe. Weak and shivered thin, diet and stress interchangeable, terrified of cracks in the hide.
Jillison, consciousness causes collapse. We are here now. Can’t make a map of anywhere else.
Still puking? Jillison. You said it wasn’t going to be same (again).
Mapskin creased over and over. Kept blaming it on the answer you couldn’t become.
Like writing you meant I owed you, an obligation (gesture) toward understanding, certainty, elimination of possibilities. An identity held, at least, temporarily.
But it was all a cartography of illusion points, Jillison. An embarrassment, in every direction. Jillison, I wanted an answer from you instead.
I wanted you tell me (just once), there’s a reason you are here. There’s a reason we stay here.