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What are you waiting for?
Who is in the mood to fuck me and or drag rusty nails against my skin? What should I tell you today? What lessons should you glean, what wisdom should you grock?
Never be me.
There's nothing under the anger, beneath the hopelessness.
Nothing hiding under the patchwork.
And that's what I'm afraid of.
Its not in the mirror.
Its not in the still night, disturbed occasionally by measured breath and recoiling murmors.
Not in that hanging, meandering sense of time. Like a plucked feather drifting from the ceiling, catching the dust and light as it waltzes the plummet. There... but not.
The contact will not be silent, but will go unnoticed.
Stillness. Quiet. Peace?
After the paperwork, the trudge, the mill, the powdering ache of bone on bone
we amount to so precious little, in such a self-absorbed box.
I intend to leave you with less.
Debt, and the innevitable upstream, tread, sink, plummet.
That second wind is only to wear you out sooner.
But the legacy of verdant, open, levelled horizon lives on.
Each reach a new despair. Each wet, gasping breath pulling you deeper.
