She'd look for them. As she habitually cracked her jaw. The chirp of moments dead in their cradles. The slatted walls of despair that let only enough light through to see how dark it was.
Close her eyes. Tuck back her hair. Adjust the volume on the depression until it is music. Wipe the loose skin from her glasses. Brush the moisture from her eyes. In the fragments of clarity that erupt inside her chamber. Moments gather in tepid persuasions. Of all the little ghosts she's scratched with crayon. Colorful scars on the empty paper she wears as her skin.
The conciliatory accusations of impotent men. When roses fail her. When lies undress. Those bones are open to interpretation. Left to herself translating the sour monologues the curtains have kept.
In pragmatic labors they tallied the pleasure. For tax and wager. Two tongues. One lie. A soiled capsule looking over the cliff of her esophagus. As though it were a high rise. And all the drugs in her stomach a ghoulish audience applauding. As she contemplated where the bottom could be hiding.
Saturday
2/17/2007 11:24:00 PM
Sad Labels:
introspect
,
sad
,
suicide
'The conciliatory accusations of impotent men.' - it's a great line - what do you mean by it I'd like to know?
it has two meanings actually. the first referring to on occasion when someone told me, after a couple of years of feigning it, that they weren't in love with me, but that it wasn't me, it was their fault becuz they couldn't fall in love anymore. yea. o-k-a-y.
the second being someone else who'd accused me of being depressed because i made it so. that i didn't opt for happiness so to speak. when in reality they were just as miserable and unwilling to admit it.
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