Don’t Let Me Linger, Black

How could you forgive me if I can’t find it in my heart to forgive myself?
For what, love?
Oh, you know the goddamn basics, for living, breathing, existing.
For letting the negative thoughts push against my brain dominating my train of thought.
I get it, girlfriend.
I have been you, bitch bossy, whiny, a pity party of one without the bouncy balloons, silver glitter, and rainbow streamers.
I have been the unicorn’s worst enemy and the sunshine’s cloud cover bummer.
Depressed.
But, haven’t you been happy at times too?
Oh yes, I have had my fill of belly laughter and giddy memories.
I guess it just feels like a long time ago, walkin’ in these Debby downer, brown muddy, winter boots.
Why are you so fucking hard on yourself?
Because my broken dream train left the station and dumped me by the side of an empty road.
Crappy cornfields instead of sea green, healing waters.
I’ve traveled so far, lost in search of meaning and purpose.
Forever chasing the sun.
The blissed-out feeling, ya’ know?
You can’t always be happy; life doesn’t work like a goddamn, children’s Disney show.
Luck, no I have not been extremely lucky.
Not so much, you say?
Why, what more would you want?
I want peace of mind, fame, riches, glory, and a glass house by the beach.
It’s all messed up, mostly I long for quiet purpose, less self-loathing, and security.
I’d love Chris Cornell and Dolores O’ Riordan to sing a rhapsody of “Black Hole Sun” and “Linger” exclusively for me. But don’t you get it they can’t; they’re on a different, magical, mystical groovy plane now.
Starstuff, Stardust, star bright lights illuminating the night.
Can I go there and release all this black toxic waste, dark matter, and foul energy?
Nope, you aren’t ready.
You cannot miss the magic you might see, man.
No way.
Forgive yourself.
Signed sincerely, me.
I’m a work in progress.
Man, all this creativity is killing me.
The hatred and fucked up, dirty, foul-mouthed, ugly cruel world is bringing me down.
I’m a speck of shit on an old, worn out shoe.
They were so young, so alive, and so goddamn worthy of living.
Pure, innocent and raw, they were the shiniest kind of beautiful talent and humanity.
Don’t you get it; they were a lot like you.
Fucking Jesus Christ gems, they were. I’m not.
To check out young and beautiful, so swollen with talent.
Where does life go?
It leaves the universe exploding with promise.
The future filled with hope.
All the best ones do.
I won’t pretend living has been easy, nah, not for me.
I won’t sugar coat the dark, winter blues with a blanket of fluffy, white snow.
White is not a color I’d choose to paint my canvas.
Fuck that, give me citrine, tangerine, cobalt, the golden sun and keep her silver fox moon shadow away.
I curse the dark that boxes in my head, bleeding me bone dry.
It’s the exact flipside of happy.
Isn’t it?
Don’t you get it?
You get to feel all the feels way deep inside, discover colors bursting and understand the black holes too.
You are one lucky bastard, a sister who gets to feel life and experience all the sadness and happiness upon your shoulders.
It’s heavy, but it’s true.
Your luck is the sheer weight of being alive.
It is not only yours, and these words don’t belong to you.
They’re for someone else, needing to hear them too.
There are no straight lines, just sweet and somber melodies.
It’s rock and roll, art, love, words, feelings, and all the strong, compassionate people who’ll carry you through.
Until one day when the breath quiets and the heart sings, swaying back and forth towards infinity.
And a life, well lived majestically and brutally honest somewhere in the middle.
Goodnight, sweetheart.
Stay a while longer.
The magic and mystery never ends.

Photo Credit: -Jeffrey- Flickr via Compfight cc



Jacqueline Cioffa

A retired, international model, and celebrity makeup artist. Co-Author of Model Citi Zen, the guide. Founder of http://modelcitizenmakeup.blogspot.com/. Author of numerous prose pieces in various literary magazines. Most recently published in Little Episodes Brainstorms the anthology, among esteemed artists Sadie Frost, Melvin Burgess and Todd Swift.

One thought on “Don’t Let Me Linger, Black

  1. Dori OwenDori Owen Reply

    “It is not only yours, and these words don’t belong to you.
    They’re for someone else, needing to hear them too.”

    Me, Me, Me. You wrote them for me. What a fabulous start to Sunday with you in my head translating my thoughts into magical prose. Your gift to craft words into reflective musings is an amazing lagniappe for tired minds searching for respite. A dark camaraderie with a gift with purchase of hope…and compassion. I could read your words forever ❤️

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