i press the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping
to cause a stutter of green fireworks or some sort of shock of color, but
the digging of my fingers into my eye sockets only further proves the violence that my brain concocts-
a visceral, dangerous, drunken idea that will take me weeks and
willpower i don’t have to forget,
so perhaps i should gouge my eyes out here and now
then i would be left in the dark-
i, and the Thing behind my eyes, perhaps then
we can reconcile the price of my soul and if I will ever grasp the use
of ceiling fans.
stream of consciousness? my ceiling fan is what i stare at when i try to sleep, and i wrote this after a failed attempt at it. it is what it is