untitled

I think the piece speaks for itself.

My fingers were sticky on the soft pen grip. The transparency of the papers on which was scribbled loose conjecture revealed rings of rosy infusions past, dried. I was cold - frigid, shaky. They turned off the heat last week. I'm still waiting to feel thawed-out.

I have stretched out in the spaces that fit between linear conception and Ophelia-esque conjecture. My limbs are now soft punctuations of thought that cloud around me like inter-tidal kelp, but burst into metallic filaments when touched. 

I am unbound.

Vacuous, yet teeming with activity, I brim to the crest of this cranial cavity and ebb to the high centered shores of proclivity. I don't dismiss the dismal in this place.

I crave the itchy, tongue-loosened chaos and long to hold the spongy, but protected, mania of my youth. To be swung, violently, in arms that vibrated in emotion. I am eager to ease into inequality again. 

I looked at the dots in my face and remembered I will die. 

In the time it took me to prepare my face for a job- any money, all-received - I shook in fear at the end. My eyes have seen the abyss.

He will know death too. I remembered slowly. We will all fall into it with the same silenced voices: the only constancy through the eons of time, the mechanics of which I still wish I did not understand. 

It is going too fast.

I am ripped along by a stream, the bed of which is mired by rocks and sticks and things to catch one's skin as the body tumbles unintentionally toward the fall. I am still trying to get my heels into the sand. I am still trying to wedge my feet into the rocks that, covered with algae, resist me, successfully. My head is plunged under and I feel my jaw smack smartly on a monster of granite. The taste of blood is still on my tongue.