![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Finally the medicine. A small round white tablet like something you could crush up and march in a line. Small white and round floating in clear liquid saturating quickly; quick, go. Think: Better on an empty stomach, so when it turns there's nothing on the other side.
Perforate your skin. No less than two holes in you at a time. Letting out some steam? or allowing the porous boundary to take. And take. Anxiously bend, press, tear, squeeze, gape. Hold yourself apart. Thumbhead teasing at the wound that rends, leaks, and disgusts. Right on.
You enter the dream as you exit the dream. It's the way you fell asleep; perhaps you timed it wrong. You waited for the bell to ring for her, by your ear, and swallowed each message after a brief, comical, educational exercise in restraint. A jolt and it's similar to life, second-order hope diffused towards the inattentive sky. Having more without having given; the cardinal law errs. What you wanted you can't hide.
Up and you've been resting poorly, in and out of consciousness with a dunking motion. Your skin is plucked raw, dreamed-gestures phasing silently through, as if you had eaten Hell's pomegranates. But the cheap wallpaper behind which you secretly shone blue light had no seed to offer. Among which axis to distinguish dream and memory, when the order seems not to matter? Desire is, by definition, incomplete; a kind of fiction. In its most positive state it is a fiction two people happily allow.
Close your eyes. Twelve hours up. Stare into velvet darkness and catch teeth with a smile's lower edge. Words fall into a net that splinters at a distance.
Tossing and turning.
They disappear as soon as I find the intention to write them; nearness scares them away. This is as flimsy an excuse as claiming: chewed up homework. Gotten off the leash, somewhere, though I swore I would not lose it--could not lose it, how should I, of my mind?
Perforate your skin. No less than two holes in you at a time. Letting out some steam? or allowing the porous boundary to take. And take. Anxiously bend, press, tear, squeeze, gape. Hold yourself apart. Thumbhead teasing at the wound that rends, leaks, and disgusts. Right on.
I've lost the ability to cover an idea with language. Can't pave over my sentences: one, two, three, uneven misaligned bricks in a wall. It must be the result of an isolated hand; worse than a hammer, the most useless tool. For why's it matter if you've got the bent to catch or hit or steal, just jerking off. Then I felt the old carving urge well up. The sturdy meat there by my radial palm flexed. Selfishly. Spasmed and grabbed on.
You enter the dream as you exit the dream. It's the way you fell asleep; perhaps you timed it wrong. You waited for the bell to ring for her, by your ear, and swallowed each message after a brief, comical, educational exercise in restraint. A jolt and it's similar to life, second-order hope diffused towards the inattentive sky. Having more without having given; the cardinal law errs. What you wanted you can't hide.
I had planned--sketched--different segments in my imagination prior to putting them to page. Well, hardly, as I hardly ever hold onto my structure. It suffocates spontaneity, where any brilliance, probably, rests. The gap! Expectations erase, erase me--until I can slip between them, so slim. My words are invisible efforts to help you understand... help me remember... fraying threads, letters strung on like beads, all jumbled up. Were I not forgetful, I would have no method of facing you. I would write; I would sleep; I would give up half my life.
Up and you've been resting poorly, in and out of consciousness with a dunking motion. Your skin is plucked raw, dreamed-gestures phasing silently through, as if you had eaten Hell's pomegranates. But the cheap wallpaper behind which you secretly shone blue light had no seed to offer. Among which axis to distinguish dream and memory, when the order seems not to matter? Desire is, by definition, incomplete; a kind of fiction. In its most positive state it is a fiction two people happily allow.
I dreamt: Hotel rooms with my father, two hotel rooms, side by side and separated by a wall. But he isn't snoring--a sure siren that signals when should I disappear underneath my cloth shawl, in a kids novel, claiming invisibility. We had stayed in a kind woman's apartment along with all sorts of other children and half-families when we moved to Maryland decades ago. I remember a fat, pink grapefruit, the size of my dad's fist; I had to cup my palms to hold. With the same care and fear of contamination that one might cradle a dead bird. We had no issues with proximity until we moved into a house. Nightmares flipped, from running to their bed to the pit of his pillow the pit of it all. The long, ticking hallway spat back my dread, and in dim light I arranged faces with no shades of gray to play with--but I swore the inert electric candelabra flickered with gas, and flung me shapes, colorlessly, faster than light.
Close your eyes. Twelve hours up. Stare into velvet darkness and catch teeth with a smile's lower edge. Words fall into a net that splinters at a distance.
I retain nothing but how muscles in my face tensed. Could have left it there but for the telegraphed strain throughout my whole body, your learned outline vanishing from where my eyes should not follow.
Tossing and turning.
I waited I dreamt. But not for long.
