star light, star bright.
she traces memories on the wall with her
fingertips, retouching invisible lines with the
delicate, ballerina grace of having given up
she imagines creating masterpieces of
literature, art, poetry on the blank slates of
stucco whose rough little nobules remind her
of being alive, once
her stomach goes convex, concave, convex...
she watches carefully constructed inversions with a
cautious eye, hoping to find physical proof that time
is passing by, that seasons are changing, and that the
blankets that have sufficed as a womb are growing
porous and worn
she watches a grey sky out a grey window and
sees her blue blue eyes in colorless tone as she
black and whites herself to feel less modern;
as though denouncing the now will make her memorable,
already a part of the past, not just slowly fading
she feels that aching nothing that grows just beneath
the sternum, spreading octopus tentacles behind the breastbone;
the ache of parasitic aloneness that develops into a
self-fufilling propechy of loneliness manifesting itself
in subconscious effort toward isolation
she lays on a sicksoft throne of self-deprivation,
starving the well-adjusted emblem of motivation out of
her panic-tightened chest; she dreams of becoming
something so much better, and believes it in her nonreality
yet she awakens in a shell that reminds her of
what it feels like to always be writing with invisible
ink; her hands will never make the imprints she intends
the winds will wear down the fingerprints on the wall,
and the bedsheets will be washed and remade with prim care,
her picture will be hung along the corridor outside,
and her memory will slip away, forgotten, on the tongues
of those who used to promise her they'd find a way
[and in those final dreams she believed in the lies
simply because she needed something to believe in]
_________
Just trying to write again...
...
:\
fingertips, retouching invisible lines with the
delicate, ballerina grace of having given up
she imagines creating masterpieces of
literature, art, poetry on the blank slates of
stucco whose rough little nobules remind her
of being alive, once
her stomach goes convex, concave, convex...
she watches carefully constructed inversions with a
cautious eye, hoping to find physical proof that time
is passing by, that seasons are changing, and that the
blankets that have sufficed as a womb are growing
porous and worn
she watches a grey sky out a grey window and
sees her blue blue eyes in colorless tone as she
black and whites herself to feel less modern;
as though denouncing the now will make her memorable,
already a part of the past, not just slowly fading
she feels that aching nothing that grows just beneath
the sternum, spreading octopus tentacles behind the breastbone;
the ache of parasitic aloneness that develops into a
self-fufilling propechy of loneliness manifesting itself
in subconscious effort toward isolation
she lays on a sicksoft throne of self-deprivation,
starving the well-adjusted emblem of motivation out of
her panic-tightened chest; she dreams of becoming
something so much better, and believes it in her nonreality
yet she awakens in a shell that reminds her of
what it feels like to always be writing with invisible
ink; her hands will never make the imprints she intends
the winds will wear down the fingerprints on the wall,
and the bedsheets will be washed and remade with prim care,
her picture will be hung along the corridor outside,
and her memory will slip away, forgotten, on the tongues
of those who used to promise her they'd find a way
[and in those final dreams she believed in the lies
simply because she needed something to believe in]
_________
Just trying to write again...
...
:\