Signed: From one tortoise to another.

I realise now why we fell apart

Finally now, tonight, this moment…

I realise now, in the shower just immediately before now,

Sorry that was a faulted start…

I realise now why we drifted,

no oops we broke,

Broke down and drifted apart.

We got co-opted by the politics of production.

We’d been taken,

Enamoured welders of the power of production,

And it got manifested through our communication,

The communication of production.

See, we’d turned into our parents you see,

Though they’d never meet,

They shared much similarity.

Respectable, but frozen.

Caring, empathetic Idealists,

who’d never quite broken of conservatives

Who’d internalised their capitalistic tools of trauma

Through softly projecting,

Projection and silencing,

Using caring but carefully crafted weaponised trauma,

Trauma that uses tools in a variety of ways.

So benign and loving,

So free and over-coddling,

They’d triggered such triggers but had lovingly helped us get bigger,

Be lovers, be freer.

But not without embedding such poisons of shame and fear.

We’d stopped,

Snapped,

No pricked not snapped,

A prick that fractured,

Such pricks that festered,

And such socio/psychos that only vision of cunts,

though I must stop.

That word births such traumas from the past,

Even recent traumas,

This word is violent.

The violence in that word makes me trigger and hurt…

What I intend or meant,

Instead… is there are hurts caused by both pricks and deep gashes.

Worse are the gashes for they’re rarely anticipated.

But often wound so terminally.

Or else leave unhealing scars that remind us of ancestral traumas and historical scars.

But further… let’s go… we need this to be known,

For other is not our lore.

These weapons, these hurts… pushed us and bashed us,

Broke us and cost us…

Due to them the insidious capitalist production was swept forth,

over our threshold capitalism, ownership and manipulation polluted our floors.

Hurting us more, for it came from allies, sisters, brothers and fickle fictions,

All that we’d seen helped others before,

Factors of social models,

Models that naively I’d thought would allow our us space and a hoover,

To picture visions of discovery and excitement,

Factors to help adorn our love with air, light and free openness,

But instead it was production,

Communication and production,

Of the erasure and weakening of our visions,

So we wouldn’t see the others sense.

it was forward-notions that was used to strangle our hearts,

Production of communication,

Manufactured and tasteless,

Communication of production,

The politics of insecurity and insistence.

Of individualism brought forth by ambition and competition,

We’re not entirely blameless, we could’ve done more,

We didn’t unlearn as we’d done so easily before,

Together forever in liking and lovingly alone.

But also outside and not just behind doors.

We’d stopped listening and looking,

Wondering and sharing,

The blissful visions of how we’d seen the day.

Instead we’d pout and warily stay aware.

Protecting the other through words of ambitious, development and social mobility,

No longer communicating to explore, to love, to connect our lives and quests,

And picture the other in broader roads of idealism and no individualist conquest.

I know I’ve gone on and on,

It was shorter in the shower, I swear it was brief.

Feel free to question,

it’d hell to build our dialogue and give it space for dialogue and digestion,

Of curious questions, and celebration in the challenging space of all connections.

I feel we’re returning,

Adoring and exploring,

But I need to know, that you care about where I’m going,

So that you’d occasionally join me for an odd poem…

And I could return the favour by being your companion, your critically cheerful cheerleader,

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