Friday 12/28/2007 12:43:00 AM

The bed didn't care whether she slept in it or not. It stood there empty either way. All her sleep hostage consciousness. All her rest found in quiet tornadoes. Picking at the dead leaves with fingers made of glass. Too many reflections to decide which one is accurate. Climbing the barren tree trunks in chokes of touch. Too many corpses to know from where the ghosts originate.

Trying on her last few pairs of eyes she looks at what she knows isn't there. Trying to imagine what something so unreal could ever look like. If she were the girl she was then. Who would be the woman she is now? Would it matter if she never were.

Chasing the cold with missing skin. Lost in the irony of her predicament. Each minute like chewing gum. A taste only. No nourishment. So many impostors tell her who she was. But none of them know who she is.

She lies to herself. Lies to everyone. Says she doesn't remember how it feels.

1 comments:
writerwoman said...

All her rest found in quiet tornadoes

Amazing line!



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