Sunday 1/28/2007 11:46:00 PM

I bought myself a new bed. Stained in the color of bitten lips. Sculpted to mimic the shape of the songs as they warp over the trundle of bodies infected with pleasure. Upholstered at the top with partitions to consider. When self-preservation fails the scale I weight myself with.

I yanked another Sunday from the clench of red lights and the snap of traffic. Addiction playing off the yawn of the windshield as we cut left turns like paper dolls. Disguising all our circles as art. Packages in the backseat like dead children we'd never named. Penises I can remember only by the pants they left for me to trace.

Examining the pillows. Making up the words they might say. If we still spoke. Or there were reason to. Put eyeliner on these ghosts. Or lip gloss on these zombies. Dressing up the dead in curlers. In drugs that bring me close enough to know their cold.

Everything in italics.

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