June 17, 2020


You know how these things smell like flowers. Buds and stems, buds and stems. Sometimes, they seem invisible...  their strangling scent owning vision too. It's not what I wanted, this odor too strong and inappropriate. So inappropriate. It is my own. Mine to play with. Arrange and plan. And they are here. Just because they are expected to be here. My own mind, pulling from the typical. And that is wrong. And I delete it.

Starting again. These things are like something I've orbited. Toyed with when I thought it was the time. I should have planned better. The scape is nearly dead. I don't know what to choose but subconscious is the best medicine. Spoonful. I pull memories... shapes... and hold them like play dough. Skin... warm faces... smiles in neon... lighted signs in our own happy language. I read you, made you, and I will display you well. Dismounted and adorned.

You know how these things smell of nothing. Rich nothing. Safe and sightless. This is more right than the putrid flower, the clog and compressor. I need room to shed and disrobe. I am flattened and skinned. It's a fresh sight to be strewn among the fragility... deflated and pale. I say something of remorse to my old shape and kiss could haves good bye. I can't be with you anymore. Not me. Not the awakened, alert me that can remember... that learned what it was to have a memory so linear and precise. I can't live in you.

A fake fever, a fake death. To hollow away this sick. You know how these things must be. No visitors, no tears because in this new place they do not exist - they can't. Glazing blankness, cross of fingers... This will work. Fingers to lips. Adieu, free flow... You know these things must be.

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