A Day of Rest I Cannot Take

Matthew,

Today I perceived myself so poor that I thought I could not eat but what was at home, nor leave it for fear of losing too much energy on the road.

But, I found the change jar where Kara tucked it long ago, and so was $30 richer , though it being Sunday, and my checks still being foggy or missing, I have no access to the near $25,000 that is mine.

Before I left, I lit three candles, though I hate fire, because having no money, food enough to breathe, a place to rest and cream with which to soften my scabby acne face, I had no responsibility.

So, I lit the fire to keep from burning down the house.

Angel holds the red striped candle by my bed, Goddess-Witch the black one near her silver breast, and Moon and Stars Incense Burner holds the healing violet candle I chose as mine, not even knowing what it was or what it could do.

When they had all burned out, I wrote your name in deep red lipstick on the back of a receipt, told you I loved you as you will not allow me to do, and burned it. The flower-petals, soaked with scented oil and my dried blood finally lit as they would not for days, too moist and alive, though dry for weeks as well.

And so here I am, feeding the light of the screen at my second home in the middle of the Allston ghetto, because I am never as poor as I wish myself or perceive myself to be.

And so, though I know you do not permit me, I love you, my Black Irish Bastard, Matthew Mahoney.