I started writing a piece last night, about barbed wire. But that piece has changed into this one. Earlier this year, I noticed for the first time that someone, once, had put barbed wire up around me. When I first noticed it, I thought it was for protection, erected in the name of love. I was touched until the implications sank in. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. This twisted metal had been cutting the palms of those trying to get close to me. There are trails of blood around my perimeter. We all bleed sometimes. I don’t want the barbed wire there. So I started slowly taking it down, cutting my own palms in the process. I stopped, because of the pain.
Getting rid of all of it is going to be harder than I thought. Because I don’t know how to. I’ve tried, but I haven’t gotten all of it. Last night showed me that, and it was intense, in more ways than one. Until last night I was getting ready to move on, maybe keep a little bit of metal as a memento. No such luck.
modern-day, my very own, basquiat. radiant beauty wrapped up in timpani. smash. take your dreams out your back pocket. i can’t be grateful. ? = not + touched. i’ve got a rooftop for you. circle a bicep, or better yet, a wrist – mine. for your master plan.
Three little letters keep on reappearing, the universe’s way of reminding me I’m not done yet. Deliberate false statement. Back to figuring out how to dismantle something that’s been there for so long. I need to get a wire-cutter. The cowardly part of me wants to leave it up, figures that if someone really wants to get through, they’ll risk the blood. I don’t want to include blood in the price of admission – the bleeding comes later, with the sweat and tears. I don’t even know if I’d bleed for someone else. I’m starting to become resentful because I didn’t put the wire up myself and I’m complicit in its remaining presence.
So: I’m not a bomb site. Last time, I checked, there weren’t any wolves coming my way. Besides, I have my own artillery, remember? I’m not your Rapunzel. Not since I shaved my hair off, and that was ages ago. Things weren’t just kept out. I was kept in.
This is ridiculous. Barbed wire love snags my jeans.