07/04/2024

Atrophy. The constant blaring of the siren withers away at last. I get up. I pick the chair up and move it back to where it was before I got scared of my own reflection in the pen. Is this agony male, or merely human? What does my sink think of me before I twist my hands on it for several seconds? Is the hallway safe? Why do I get the urge to run through it every time I step in? My ears, my ears are crackling with heat! What was it that I was scared of anyway? Surely it is not my own face. It must be my arms, it must be! My tendons bulging out of my arms, yes! That must be it! The creasing of my skin under tension disturbs me. I have been alive in a way I cannot change. Is my tongue hollowed out? Why is there no speak in it? Yes, I look down when walking, not because I am self conscious, but because I have always been interested in below the horizon. The street looks ominous, the pavements are controlled by beauty. I will never be beautiful. How do I stumble out into a city I know is in ruins? The borderlands, I have never been. Atrophy. My ears, god! My ears are burning! My fingertips are screeching! The words are murdering my soul! Is this anything like being tripped? I get up. This must have happened before. I remember a time, was it mine? The water is contaminated with happiness. “My soul is rusting” and “columns are a byproduct of olden love”. I must write about- I must not write about anything at all any more. The words are cleansing her. My soul is rusting! I walk the hallway, my ears, god! It’s as much a corridor as anything else. Atrophy. I have become the size of a nail on a finger. The pen is still inside her. Are my ears bleeding? I get up. Could it be my own face? Does my dread fulfill my face? She is stone. Columns are a byproduct of olden love. I cup her face. I must not write about anything at all any more. Atrophy.