Wednesday, January 28, 2009

when everything's made to be different |

i hate that my shoes are still on.

and the dirt under my nails, and the sun's still out, and the closet light is on, and the speakers won't get any louder, and i left all my rings in the bathroom. a film of gray powder pours it's self, my knuckles sink and rise, your bottom lip, the gray inside, the gray outside, it tingles and fizzles and sinks beneath the surface. you're either in it, or you're out. you're prickling up from my wrist to my shoulders. i'd let you come here. but i don't have any of the right maps to tell you how.

my eyes are dry, these things spin out of my hands into dust.
and when i finally get the grab, i build it back up from the ground.

my hands smell like soap and cigarettes.
i've been playing with the dust all day.

12_80_9: i hate when i'm really bursting, you know, but i keep drawling a blank. it's not mine yet. i'll let you know when it is.

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