I’m bleeding, and I can feel the decay—I wonder if I felt my being made? We must carry some sort of remembrance of growing a heart, a clitoris—our eyes? We must.
I feel the metaphorical leaves falling from my branches. I am reaching a new season—a new set of characters on this sitcom wait in the green room—a strange calm ignites my dying vision. I can barely see without the help of my plastic eyes. They celebrate my need for them, because without me—they’re nothing.
My bones crack at strange hours and my hair is a tinseled Christmas Tree.
I am sprouting in odd places, weird patches of growth in the garden of cruelty.
I dance as if digging a grave these days, a phenomenon of atrophy.
Everything must carry some sort of performance at this time—we must keep ourselves interested in what remains.
The few who brag about understanding loneliness are also the ones who fear flashbacks and the jolts that crack the earth in small fissures. We are reminiscent of receding seas, of dried humidity. We cascade into amnesia when the temperature disagrees with our hormones.
I am bleeding, and I can feel the decay—I think we forget how we’re made so that we disperse as if we were never here. No responsibility.