opening thought being that if i wake up in sweat heavy blankets one more time i might just disintegrate, been stuck shifting around at hours irrelevant hung up on nothing particularly innovative, rolling back around to the same places i've been before (haven't left), funny how life stays cyclical, spiral tongues leave forgotten notes stuck to my back, forewords advised before i could remember, blame it on my ignorance or blame it on my age, break it in half and swallow them both, stomach distended from eating mounds of dirt and to passersby i'll say once again i'm not ashamed, it holds no weight to me anymore, really isn't anything more than a regurgitation of the same variety as last week, progress and recovery and taking on the identity of being In The Process Of -
recovering, fear of labels attached to shoelace strings, moving unwisely and unravelling again, sideways smiles and taking aim, stuck out the front and the neighbours are starting to stare, amassing an audience like a child to a car crash, tomorrow's a new day and i'll die waiting,
getting over yourself in all kinds of weather, lying in tall grass to pretend i'm not hiding, god, jealousy doesn't begin to touch it -
scalded hands bring precarious subtext to our domestic situations, caught underfoot by my surburban heart stuck printing words in large block lettering, Do
Not Resuscitate so passe but i know, don't know the things that were so blatantly missing til you've got them there to prove it, plugging up holes i swear must've widened while i was asleep, rats nests in sock drawers and infestation as a love language, just been waiting for you to ask, but autonomy curdles quick by these willful hands of mine, skilled manoeuvers to escape contaminations ordered discreetly yet direct, open palmed empty threat breaking out in hives again, stuck talking on rehashed carriages leading straight fucking down, taking swigs best kept steady with a religious fervour, left settling for a waiting room that'll extend as far as i can hold it -
holding so far as pitfalls in the yard and broken bones set with spittle and yet again as always an imagined value becomes a thing of quiet admonishment, waves crash and break at your doorstep, slowing marching water stains starting to grow mold under the bed, presuming clean skin but there's always time to try again, third time's the charm and of course i've stopped counting, washing it off again to swallow seawater as my morning routine, you're up again before me so i'll just wait here and listen,
(so high on the shelf you almost forget it's there) -
forgetting words that rhyme and using the wrong colour thread, stitching these screens to cast love notes across the ocean but wooden beams will rot like always, i think it'll be the death of me, not a question so much as an unknown value, empty corridors will hold my heart like mourning before the loss arrives, like writing your own eulogy and filing it away for those who i hope will still love me, a reminder that these things will continue so far past and beyond me that the time spent waiting doesn't seem all that bad, shedding dead skin over meals made with love and fuck if i can't get it right some time, it goes nowhere under threat of violence or unknowns held far worse, making trades for borrowed years to the gain of those around me, stuck huffing insecticide and growing barnacles in cityside sheds, knowing nothing past the obvious and i know it'll be the death of me, cast three times and fall hook line and sinker, knee deep in polluted strains and algae reflects off me like so many billions of stars, catch pinprick lights calling wistful, waiting, beyond and beside me crawling back into bed