the edge was out of focus. small cuts. that heal much too slowly. because those scabs are too tempting.
time was panting. out of breath. too weak to keep up with us. we were young. and arrogant. with more skin than feelings.
the bridges swayed in the gusts. choice is a windy proposition. we don’t know it’s name, but it knows us.
the slender shadows that sneak under closed doors. the pricks of light that weave through the darkness. all the components of emptiness that are constantly constructing the void in which we stutter. a worn box longing for contents. that is too weak to hold anything.
we spin. propellers in the wind. we live the same way. beaten by the weather. destroyed by our expectations.
everything is sudden.
we were lingering in the remainder. flirting with the decimal. numbers in the skins of predators. fumbling through life’s well-worn pages for the passage that might make us real.
the little cuts are the most dangerous. the kind that we barely feel. we don’t notice them. they don’t bleed. but they leave an opening for the monsters to sneak inside us.
we were simmering in our arrogance. wicked with expectation. dropped chances left to stale.
we were certain in the potency of our despair. trembling shadows in gravity’s hand.
it was nothing. it was everything. the paradox of perspective.
it’s always small. until it’s not. the years press down. heavy weights piling up. they slow us down. they make us weak. they make us strong.
i’d always assumed i would recognize it. truth. love. deception. that they would have a certain scent. a particular manner of speaking. that they would arrive in shimmering dresses and glinting crowns. i would know them before they knew me.
the little stones. they’re the ones that hurt your feet.
recognition is everything.
they don’t have faces. they don’t stay the same. they turn. they twist. ragged ropes struggling to keep together frail, frail bridges.
everything is small until it’s big.
perspective is ruthless.
the sun was accumulating in the crevices of her thougths. pockets of tomorrow warm and soft.
elephants in tea bags. all plastic spoons and stale honey.
their words spilling into her. broken pencils with missing erasers. the ambivalence of consensual change.
the years spent her. in pocket change and pennies. the spine of the book deferring to the pages within.
arrogant metaphors and stagnant similes. the stories we sleep with when we’re lost.
her bones protested as she pulled her flesh tighter. the delicate friction of regret as the debt is realized.
succulent lies stroked the dark. loaded needles sniffing for the veins. the thunder of movement. the hiss of waiting. a cacophony of life bleeding from a poison pen.
the yellow of gravity. the gray of choices. crayons melting into soiled underthings.
we’re small. we know this. that’s the infection.
time is a boulder. we are pebbles at the mercy of its momentum.
the zipper opens. we crawl out of our skins. soft and eager butterflies. but freedom has far more victims than wings.
little buttons on the grey. pressing on and pressed by us. timid warriors in a sinking chess match.
slivers of skin across open wounds. spoons in the desert.
we sway. our ropes in the fists of the storm. the bottle breaks. the message devoured by the rain.
shadows stutter across our words. as we wonder what we’ll say. the thread tangles and the tear reopens.
a prolonged series of surrenders. to win the war.
the bulb burst. the glass was everywhere. we stood in the darkness. it was time well wasted.
you don’t see with your eyes. there are choices we make. and those we let make us. in the perpetuity of flesh. burnt wicks still yearning for flame.
we don’t count out loud. the doses. the subtle medicines.
we just argue as the storm fills the jury box. we just say it wasn’t us as the murder weapon glistens in the sun.
we chase the disintegrating filament. as the lamp begins to dim. we beat our imaginary drum. as the truth invades our fictions. Continue reading “Long Division”