Friday, June 22, 2007

In my dreams lately I have found myself in holding places for the criminally insane, long hallways lined with dark holes of cells. Every night for days I have walked down them, terrified and in a full biohazard suit, cowering at the faces that leap towards the bars and scream epithets and gibberish in my direction.

This morning I woke up with a faint bruise on my left wrist, just to the side of the veins that wait purple-blue under the surface of my skin. I think that the flailing and cowering that I've been doing inside my brain is flailing and cowering that I've been doing in my bed as well.

Sometimes I think that love is a bad, bad idea.

When the weather starts to turn warm and my sleeves get shorter I find myself tempted to write lines and lines and lines of poems up and down the insides of my arms. The lines would be uneven and patchy, because the tip of the pen would tickle and clog. I want to cover my skin with someone else's perfect words. And then when I'd go to hug you they'd be there, between your skin and mine. The way it should be.

No comments: