crawling back

some kind of phantom solace: resignation to excuse the day without loathing where it leads me. growing up or giving in? we make the same bed either way. every trial takes the carriage to the pillow or the grave.

we stop by the beach on the way to the airport. you live in a jar just over the hill with a view of the bridge between strangers. I've not visited all year and maybe this is growth, though I think I've just found other gods to blame for how I am. Dad asks me to tell him what he can do to help. I don't have an answer and feel embarrassed by my dependence on problems I draw somewhere between my apathy and privilege. my parents watch and wait for word on what I need. I waste their love on metrics I can't meet: a prodigal parasite crawling back for more.

clouds open for flying. I spy five parrots from the passenger seat. the driver talks to someone else.

snow and dreams

I wait for change behind the wheel: saving for a rainy day and hiding when it comes. tears whinge down the windscreen. guilt and laundry perpetual as oxygen I breathe through gritted teeth. my words fall out of order into empty dishes. I can't stand the sound of their weight on my voice. eyes close for birdsongs through the rain to cleanse a rotting soul. aching through the static just to end where we begin; a broken puppet twitching on a pillow. tomorrow waiting in the wings for more. I beg the night for snow and dreams too beautiful to wake from.

clocks I can’t see

and all we do is fill the empty spaces as they come. doors and open mirrors. your bed, my grave, an outlet mall. playing house forever in between.

the words flood every room, bursting pipes and spoiling any hope for making sense. I stare at the ceiling with a will too weak to open the door or my eyes to anything other than this. the world feels further every breath and death bought with my apathy and taxes. feelings blur like vision underwater; clocks I can’t see ticking in the walls. no more meaning than the motion pictures. I wish I knew my lines.

books

can I exist beyond the pile of books you'll never read?

sinking

the realm of possibility shrinks. I sink further into myself with the rain on the window and a headache. enough damage without the headlines. 'what a miserable day'.

when I come home the rooms feel empty despite every memory's ghost and pictures on the walls. the cat doesn't remember me. I feel too long and lonely in the bed that's held me more than any other ever will. what has become of my refuge? where do I turn now? I blame the brain I can't think beyond for every loss and damage. I miss my openness and hope. maybe it's just another day. stars shift behind curtains and forecasts change. there's always more tomorrow.

the cage only tightens. blue light screams through empty shells and words that never end. I don’t understand anything.

bedlam

attachment wounds scar to be seen and understood. vulnerability opens doors to more. shutting down and disconnecting; just a dream or two of respite from the shame of being who I am. the scenic route leads nowhere different. some kind of fear that lingers irrespective of the day. 

I bring what I can to the table. something stolen from mum or the internet - whatever I fit in my bag. other people eat and I can serve a purpose. tanks leave less empty on my fuel. I wash dishes and feel a little better: my time went somewhere other than the drain. 

another school burns through the night on my phone. I wash my face and wish I wasn't watching from the cheap seats. let the sirens mind themselves for now. just keep yourself clean. donate blood and do what you can to keep the bedlam going.

my minimum core

do we need cages to make animals? I draw a case of absent thinking at my minimum core. with everything essential satisfied, I keep the surface clean and fears contained. the sun surfaces to settle: we play along and even in debt do our best to keep up. I dress for other people, stopping and starting on traffic light time. the roads pulse urgency, currents of consumption on the way to something more. I follow the signs and relish their direction. gaps in reason can't be filled with words. diversion is a gift.

in the house I wash dishes and clothes in different machines, leaving nothing to show for my mess or what I've done. the performance prevails, claiming some sort of clean if I try hard enough. I tend to virtual gardens and sustain another day, moving silent through the evening on patterns serving no one. their webs tighten and I suffocate on solace. when I brush my teeth I remember to pray, though the language evades and I fall further from fluent each night. how much can one beg for a world they don't believe in?

you tell me you scream in your car to stay calm. I wish you'd let me listen.