In the morning I'm resurrected and religion cooks me breakfast.
Hope lays out my clothes and forgiveness combs my hair.
I am washed and placid.
A man I sometimes know hangs his head and we weep and often plead insanity. We seldom remember 11pm.
When the blinds close and wet laundry slaps our faces we kiss and giggle. We won't be that way, he says. No, I shrug.
We become laughter and strange voices and screen voyeurs. We are stationed in ritual. We walk an hour hand's precipice.
We nibble and dribble and our brains bubble up. We peak.
Our needs divide.
He: Time is of the essence.
Me: I've only just begun.
He: You must speed up.
Me: You must slow down.
You: I'm doing this for slumber.
Me: I'm doing this for life.
You: You push.
Me: You hurt.
You: I'm leaving.
Me: And I?
Bustle and mess and screams
The dried laundry meets the rug. We are in ruins.
A man I couldn't know shakes his head. I cry as he curses me and dubs me crazy. It's now 11pm.
And we don't know.
At night I'm executed and hurt digs me a careless, lonely grave.
Defeat pulls off my clothes and fear lets down my hair.
I am filth and I'm an earthquake.
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