You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead like a shank of butcher's meat, your dorcel fin peaks through the sand where my toes peak through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards. I take photos, make reservations, and even after I'm canceled on for walking around downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry: Stardom.
I don't have room for you in the corners. The corners of this room, padded walls, shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines in the specks of light flicking out of the horizon like a carousel ride around and around. I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.
If you want to see me spring, like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face, I observe you through a kaleidoscope of dexedrine and morphine. Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that(a daydream with sawing you called me) sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon. You bring it up mentioning the water in the cracks made by the cold sore in the corner of my mouth. Is it that time of the month? No. You don't bleed, it seems that being sewn up to your neckline your head streamed with a purple ribbon, you advocate freedom and being in the present as if practicing solidarity was a subtle thing.
Chewy, sewage tasting vitamins from GNC. Surgery moved to the end of next week. I wish that this sleep "thing" could bring sheep with numbers painted on their wool coating. I would make my virginity my first offering, than silently do my suffering. Lips held tight to your dew-drop forehead, my hands wandering, wondering. Fingernails marking you blue and black until you're *******.
Where in a sickening moment a black beast hovers above us. I scribble words into your left eyelid. A flutter. She, being your best girlfriend, does not interfere with this "thing" we're doing. Otherwise I'm vomiting, my stomach churning under a canopy three months later while we're pelted with rice.....my tuxedo, you're copy and pasted due to anxiety, and so I kiss my mother on the cheek. I leave, I go the beach. And I sit across from you at the picnic table. When rousing from our daydream I hear a moth fluttering, a child's mother whip his wrist the other way to drag him away- and the sun isn't setting, unrested I head in, and I bring my arm to my mouth, and with fifteen year old lips I kiss myself to sleep.
