Yellow Lines in Bold

There are dimensions to this shadow. There is survival. Its bloated tongue wagging. So neglected. There is shame. The face of it so long. Endless brow imposing experience. Memory. As saccharine as it is acrid. Now that I have enough of them to know I've lived.

Not just been born. Or survived.

There is reception. Glossy and dismal. Heavy dials on old radios. This search crackles at every interval as I pause to listen. To see if the signal is adequate.

Reach me.

It's not good always being the hunter. I need to be the prey sometimes. If only to remember how to hunt again.

Slip the blade between then and now. Pull the fetus from its empty womb. Kill it.

Either start over.

Or bring it all to an end.

My eyes follow the moon while my fingers cup the clouds. Wearing their shadows. Trying on their skins one hair at a time.

I see the lines. See the road. But I don't know why it's there.

Ricocheting off into the horizon's deep cleavage until vision proves unfit.

To show me where I am. Where I am going.

Or if there is any place left to go.