Did not love the love I had. Slipped it on in mornings
and walked sleepy-eyed into the bathtub that collects my bathwater.
Daily soaking, scrubbing, and watching my self drain
down behind the floor. Imagine identity invented under simulated rain,
simulated stimulation, a simulation of cleansing, renewing. Still the same.
Disappointed. Cold. Shivering replacing shame and a standing upset, dragging a towel over goosebumps, I cannot command. The lump of existence, the thought of existing
genuinely among and to the animated corpses of the acting corps, chilled to the marrow
I run for the blood. As if running itself will be energy enough to boil the toxic in me
if only to purify partly.
No comments:
Post a Comment