{"id":120,"date":"2004-11-28T15:29:25","date_gmt":"2004-11-28T22:29:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/blog\/?p=118"},"modified":"2004-11-28T15:29:25","modified_gmt":"2004-11-28T22:29:25","slug":"home-again-and-aching","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/2004\/11\/28\/home-again-and-aching\/","title":{"rendered":"Home again and aching"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

My skin feels red,
slightly boiled from the inside;
joints ache like ungreased pistons.
My head’s a thousand miles away.
pauvre petite tête<\/em><\/p>\n

It’s good to be home again again again,
though my thoughts echo and words stick,
like a taste on the palette that won’t let go.
Words like independence<\/em>, like fortitude<\/em>
and awareness<\/em>, understanding<\/em> and compassion<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

I’ve an admission to make: I never cried.
Not with you watching, not alone when I said,
“I need to walk.”, neither before when I knew,
nor after when it was irrevocable.
My heart had been burdened by months of despair,
in the knowledge that this was the last time
we’d go through this; irreconcilable,
this time the outcome would be different.
We dragged it out well; both fighters, I guess.
At some point during those months, my heart
broke quietly, hidden in a corner, my stomach
convulsed and I curled up, shivering with the knowledge
that the universe was indifferent.<\/p>\n

But I never cried, and if I seemed
to leave without a fight, it was because
how can I fight for something I can’t even cry over losing?<\/em><\/p>\n

It’s neither here nor there,
perhaps a little of both.
Something I have to figure out before I move on?
Too many questions, like a magnet in my brain,
always pointing due wherever<\/em>.<\/p>\n

–<\/p>\n

I watched Dogville<\/em><\/a> last night with my mom.
It wasn’t what I was expecting, but begs the question:
how much can we forgive someone for acting out of fear?<\/em><\/p>\n

No matter how cruel the town was to her,
the only time she cried was when they destroyed
the image she had of the goodness of the town;
seven, small porcelain figurines.<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My skin feels red, slightly boiled from the inside; joints ache like ungreased pistons. My head’s a thousand miles away. pauvre petite tête It’s good to be home again again again, though my thoughts echo and words stick, like a taste on the palette that won’t let go. Words like independence, like fortitude and awareness, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,12,17],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/120"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=120"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/120\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=120"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=120"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.ahniwa.com\/old\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=120"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}