My limbs are torn off with jagged edges. Sinewy, fleshy, unlike the clean and precise cut of a surgeon's knife.
I might've done it myself, in my sleep. But I wouldn't know. I wake up, body racked in pain and wondering
wondering
why it is that I insist on being so incomplete.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
printemps
The sun paints my walls an orange-red at 5 pm, setting over mountaintops outside my window.
If I could ever find just that shade, I'd paint my house in it, just to make it last longer on the walls.
Spring is arriving once again. I no longer shiver myself to sleep, but rather stir in the middle of the night,
restless, wide-eyed, hungering for something new, somewhere new.
Perhaps, someone new.
I am unbinding, clamps gripping into my skin loosening with the lengthening of the days. I ebb and flow with the pull of the moon, wiser, impassioned, desirous.
Warm, lethargic evenings tease me into slumber.
I am awakening.
If I could ever find just that shade, I'd paint my house in it, just to make it last longer on the walls.
Spring is arriving once again. I no longer shiver myself to sleep, but rather stir in the middle of the night,
restless, wide-eyed, hungering for something new, somewhere new.
Perhaps, someone new.
I am unbinding, clamps gripping into my skin loosening with the lengthening of the days. I ebb and flow with the pull of the moon, wiser, impassioned, desirous.
Warm, lethargic evenings tease me into slumber.
I am awakening.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Il n'y a rien.
There's nobody left in the world tonight.
Nobody left but me, and the ever-present swishing of the washing machines in the laundry room above my head. "The perks of living on the fifth floor," they would say sarcastically, rolling their eyes. I don't mind it. It's comforting, in a way.
Comforting on nights like these when you get that feeling of something creeping up your back. Not of nerves or apprehension, really. More along the lines of decay. Decomposition? When everything goes silent at an abnormally early hour and something makes you feel the need to tiptoe when you walk, to hesitate before turning corners.
My muscles strain to peel my body from the wall. Blank eyes stare at me from reflective surfaces.
Perhaps the cold, never-ending rain is to blame, and we wilt slowly along with the trees outside the window, so slowly that we don't even notice until there are nights like these, when we fall asleep to escape the cold, and wake up to the deafening roar of silence mixed with the ticking of our internal clocks.
The small lamplights lights below my window look like a landing strip. I am the pilot of an empty flight.
Nobody left but me, and the ever-present swishing of the washing machines in the laundry room above my head. "The perks of living on the fifth floor," they would say sarcastically, rolling their eyes. I don't mind it. It's comforting, in a way.
Comforting on nights like these when you get that feeling of something creeping up your back. Not of nerves or apprehension, really. More along the lines of decay. Decomposition? When everything goes silent at an abnormally early hour and something makes you feel the need to tiptoe when you walk, to hesitate before turning corners.
My muscles strain to peel my body from the wall. Blank eyes stare at me from reflective surfaces.
Perhaps the cold, never-ending rain is to blame, and we wilt slowly along with the trees outside the window, so slowly that we don't even notice until there are nights like these, when we fall asleep to escape the cold, and wake up to the deafening roar of silence mixed with the ticking of our internal clocks.
The small lamplights lights below my window look like a landing strip. I am the pilot of an empty flight.
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