Snippet Entry: Grass
I want to sit on a porch, a glass of juice in hand, and watch grass decay. There is a dull ache in my chest that grows when I think of decomposition; of collapse. I think it's pain. But I think I could mistake it for excitement. I feel like my heart is covered in rubber; my mind: in plasic.
I don't know what I'm trying to say. I don't know what I'm feeling. No emotion comes with those words, and I think it's funny, because it's like I'm on the grass: hoping to be reached.
The juice spills, and the glass is now empty.
It might mean something.
I don't know what I'm trying to say. I don't know what I'm feeling. No emotion comes with those words, and I think it's funny, because it's like I'm on the grass: hoping to be reached.
The juice spills, and the glass is now empty.
It might mean something.