Now my bed is free, crushed pillows freeze my open back., the screen illuminates the ceiling, I clean myself with dirty t-shirts, never look back, but I don’t want to. It’s in the right pocket, occupies my senses in the middle of the day, shoots out my fingertips, tracing old tracks. Just after sunset I swallow my phone, messages, messages, I take them all. Honest and truthful, I do it momentarily, but it lingers on my chest, it crawls in my mind, and it sinks my heart. I live in this world in moments and sparks. However I have lived in this world all my life. Between sheets, between long road rips, between school and work, between inhale and exhale, between lips, between apps, my appetite is ever increasing, moments between ever increasing, between forever increasing, increasing, increasing, increasing.
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Between films my life plays, in between increasing, zenith, and plateau, a hard line runs down me, I am only ever existing in the corner of your eye. I see it in the mirror, when the camera fades, when the video stops, when I pause, I feel blasphemous, I feel monitored, watched by someone greater, a movie director, a set designer, a film writer, anything, anyone. The light that comes over me, drenched in sheets, is only, ever so fully, and consequently, temporary. The dark sultry wine stops pumping, gently touching, tightly squeezing, shaking, shaming, squeezing, touching. Sold to share, holders who care, my chest remembers, my mind hollowed, my heart heavy. Just after midnight I surrender to a force that compels me, no commands, to loose myself, to melt into the pixels, to evaporate all thought, to dream a fairytale dream. From the corner, my bed looks like an ancient hometown, indentations, scars, wrinkles that expand across the horizon, potholes, churches large and wide, laid in a row, in the Deep South, where I was baptized, when I was nine, where crinkled pillows burn my open wounds, now my bed is free.