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If I were a real writer I’d build a wall so high around you that time would cease to pass, even after the rebel front comes through and tears it down. When you ask how long it’s been they’ll say twenty years and we’ve all been worried sick about you.
I haven’t been sleeping through the night. I’ve been waking in thoughts of decentralizing the I, imagining my pets crawling away to die small deaths in the cold depths of caves, where you can hear and smell the dark. Those little ones, so domesticated, who lay on my chest and shed their hairs in my mouth and on my couches, blonde all over my blackest clothes. Dead under the porch but I’ll never know it.
If I were a poet I’d die a molecular death, decompose into simple organic matter. I’d return to the earth from which I came a handful of atoms who wrote a poem or two.
I remember you standing in front of the made up window of a department store, mocking the mannequins for their uncanny resemblance to milk carton children gone missing and never found. Why would you do that? I hated writing music with you. I hated your ideas and the way you delivered them, handling the air like it was yours and yours alone, explaining things to me when I didn’t ask you to. Quantum physics. Richard Feynman. How I’m too pretty to be so sad. Why you didn’t have enough time to write me back or even read my words. See if I care.
So, so contrived. Forced. Restless, because of that.
I hear my words backed by saxophones rambling and a hollow bass strung with the stuff of dead organs. Organ meats, fibers, waxed, taut.
To lay into the morning with you like it’s a life that takes form as I pull back your shoulders and handle the bones of your hips. Fill the hollow of your chest. Fix your rib. Break under the weight of a new day beginning but it’s fine because you said you’ll fall away with me this time. To pieces. I’ve only just now told you that’s something I do.
Shed weight. I like my men emaciated.
Playing with new lines, fun things like that.
Playing with onomatopoeia. Bam!
Wake up, check my email. Change my password over a long shot with a little bit of cold milk. Think about money, kick my feet up. Brush my teeth too late into the morning to really clean the night off. Whatever. Scour and scrape the dream away from my tongue. Spit it in the sink. Change the world. Sort my shit out and try on different dispositions for the day. Choose flighty. Try to excise my inner monologue, get one step closer to sociopathy. Go to school and pass the children on the way. Link to incredibly painful memories, dial them up, talk to them on speakerphone on the express J.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to do it all over again, the self that I am this morning.
When to stop? Any good? No? 4:56 a.m. Tell me, tell me. Tell me now. You’re not talking enough.
Copy paste.
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