I will fill my bed with books a rolling sea of ink and cotton and hide beneath it all until the pressure is enough
I don't have words to puncture what's inside of me and exorcise this swelling ache so I will drown myself in language, pick clean the bones of what is left then finally sprawl across my paper sheets to ask if we are done
When the weather gets warm I drink beer cold like plums and contemplate the various ways I fucked up my childhood. Cooler air and breezes suggest movement, a progression, but heat has always been still and in it, I drape myself in old ideas of how a summer should go:
condensation on glass
green things dripping pollen or the bodies of insects after they are ruined on sex -
there’s something, sex, the humidity of it.
I can’t stop thinking of the nudity of my teens and earlier when we stripped off our clothes blindly and jumped into glassy brown water to cover ourselves in mud and play always truth or dare.
When the weather gets warm I think of calling my mother and apologizing for my selfishness, for the time I promised to be home for dinner and instead left to see a girl. When I do call, and press the phone against my ear to collect its own sheen while I rock my bottle against the reddened skin at my breast, my mother doesn’t answer. She’s out and enjoying the sun.
i am like wood, i think in the sense that i've been splintered fractures in me opened where you used to be i try to fix it, lord knows i have pressed stump to stump and winced as your absence snaked beneath my fingernails: slivers of longing too thin to catch out so they'll stay here and fester do you think these are pieces of the self i should be, the whole self, once you've glued me back together? they haunt me with little pains the kind you can forget for a while before you put pressure on the wrong spot and suddenly it's all you have
I believe I may take up smoking. I hear it brings about a change of state, and I may like to be the kind of person who can breathe nicotine instead of an answer. I've tried my hand at picking locks, without great success. I think this is because of the way I am not sharp, the fingers of my thoughts too rounded by inconsistency and indecision. This could be helped with the use of a lighter, the spark of the cigarette smoldering away until I am all in points and in ash.