so things get worse before they get better; i guess that means it’s october again, i’m hungry all the time, greasy hair, the whole thing. whatever.
in the fall months, during the cold mornings, my body floats in limbo
while the old feelings soak back into sleepy flesh. my dreams become heavy,
hairy with the symbolism i can’t seem to understand in english class; i’ll let myself eat graphite in small microscopic doses
nothing more, nothing less.
& my life is soft rain, una y otra vez, a thousand little resurrections
along the length of cells in my small intestine. sadness has no place here anymore; i thought i let that out with the long hair & the
crying episodes & the horrible empty after his death in the bitter green month of may.
so maybe transformations are all in the small things. the sun rising chillier each week, the elapse of a long season for the third time running. no era has ever been so lucid, no era has ever been
so fuzzy. it is almost as if i had climbed into the skin of a tired sheep, displacing its thick, warm blood
with my own soupy lymph.
& everything else has been that, a gentle pulse of tv static, from womb to seventeenth october
& all those lonely imaginary things in between
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
so things get worse before they get better; i guess that means it’s october again, i’m hungry all the time, greasy hair, the whole thing. whatever.
in the fall months, during the cold mornings, my body floats in limbo
while the old feelings soak back into sleepy flesh. my dreams become heavy,
hairy with the symbolism i can’t seem to understand in english class; i’ll let myself eat graphite in small microscopic doses
nothing more, nothing less.
& my life is soft rain, una y otra vez, a thousand little resurrections
along the length of cells in my small intestine. sadness has no place here anymore; i thought i let that out with the long hair & the
crying episodes & the horrible empty after his death in the bitter green month of may.
so maybe transformations are all in the small things. the sun rising chillier each week, the elapse of a long season for the third time running. no era has ever been so lucid, no era has ever been
so fuzzy. it is almost as if i had climbed into the skin of a tired sheep, displacing its thick, warm blood
with my own soupy lymph.
& everything else has been that, a gentle pulse of tv static, from womb to seventeenth october
& all those lonely imaginary things in between
10.23.18
