Quiet Toys

There were plenty of moments. Thin rimmed spectacles flat lining on our faces. There were drunken operas with sex chasers. And all the various ways pores divine their peeks at heaven. Lust is a cruel accurate microscope. If your eyes chance to open.

Memory is a flawed time machine. Too far back I'm always taken. The past in a vast array of pieces. And only one solution. I try. To solve it in doses of disease. I try. To solve it in the same way it was created.

There will always be moments. Targets salivating their arrows. As the apple clings hopelessly to the top of my head. Smiling smart like all victims must. When they know the accuracy of the shooter.

I can wear the limp in smaller fragments. Like my cripple is a coloring book of lines I've yet to whole. I can spoil the wishing well with my spit. Ruining it for everyone else. And I would. If i thought they'd notice.

I'd have said right by now if I could. The songs are there because we want to hear them. The night is dark because we don't want to see.

Those plastic lips we thought were real. Those bowls of red we mistook for sex. In parodies of skin we used to take for granted. Those toys we beat assuming nothing could break them.