distorted in memory
this shit sucks
it sits in a hole slumbering
cupped with a dirt lip
the ring lifting up my skin
creased into a softened shape, halo
crumble-able, open, wet to water, mud sling
the time you tapped me
I can tap into me
only on special occasions
the people around me wait for me to murder someone on their account so I can both prove something to them and also prove something to them.
This is what binds me to life. I don't know about lifeworld so I can't haggle.
Inside me they know is some malformed manuscript of being, timing, and air. They think it's not quite so different. The stink is quite the same unless you lack something, tear out the right coo from the bird in your ear, can't seem to differentiate the smell of burnt food on metal and chocolate, or iron, or blood. Can't tell one crispy from another.
A silence for whatever gloss-eyed, glob-eyed, animal thing lies in wait
useful only to protect those who know it is there, and might share with me the real smell of it.