"Something bad is happening."
here we are two weeks into it
and surviving again
the books-
the pens-
stuffy classrooms, afternoon sweat
and yet
i feel like all i ever found here is lost.
something in me died, my skin withers on my bones sad for the loss, my eyes in a constant fix on the horizon, the "daddy is coming home soon, isn't he??" look glistening. my walls now are only four abstract white slabs-- my asylum. i am strapped to a bed that's foreign, i am often fooled by the extra pillows that mound up next to my body. i fake body heat. i pretend i exist. i toss and turn at night, walk the same invisible lines every day after day that lead in convoluted winding circles to nowhere----
and i put on my face when the sun breaks so no one is the wiser. they will think the underneath is the same. when they look closely into my eyes, peer into the pinhole depth of my pupil, their guts will ache at the sight of the rotten insides- because they've never known such emptiness to be real. but if we say it's real, then isn't it? and if not that, then what really DOES make everything real that we say to not be so? well i can feel this-
this full and knotted stomach, nothing else. i felt a hole and filled it with a bottle- i overflowed my cup and it poured out my eyes. uncontrollable. unevoked. raw. i do not know where the inside of me has gone, but i see the shell reflected in the mirror everyday. i think i mistook you for the reverse of me that perfectly aligns when we kiss, and now something has been blown to the wind and it floats unknown over this sparkling flat desert city.
you would think for all this, someone should have died.
and surviving again
the books-
the pens-
stuffy classrooms, afternoon sweat
and yet
i feel like all i ever found here is lost.
something in me died, my skin withers on my bones sad for the loss, my eyes in a constant fix on the horizon, the "daddy is coming home soon, isn't he??" look glistening. my walls now are only four abstract white slabs-- my asylum. i am strapped to a bed that's foreign, i am often fooled by the extra pillows that mound up next to my body. i fake body heat. i pretend i exist. i toss and turn at night, walk the same invisible lines every day after day that lead in convoluted winding circles to nowhere----
and i put on my face when the sun breaks so no one is the wiser. they will think the underneath is the same. when they look closely into my eyes, peer into the pinhole depth of my pupil, their guts will ache at the sight of the rotten insides- because they've never known such emptiness to be real. but if we say it's real, then isn't it? and if not that, then what really DOES make everything real that we say to not be so? well i can feel this-
this full and knotted stomach, nothing else. i felt a hole and filled it with a bottle- i overflowed my cup and it poured out my eyes. uncontrollable. unevoked. raw. i do not know where the inside of me has gone, but i see the shell reflected in the mirror everyday. i think i mistook you for the reverse of me that perfectly aligns when we kiss, and now something has been blown to the wind and it floats unknown over this sparkling flat desert city.
you would think for all this, someone should have died.