the hiss of the word selfish

This migraine is pooling my temple like a gunshot wound or Lake Berryessa. Sinking into the bone. Staying awake just doesn’t make sense after ten, once the bell has tolled and the towel has been thrown. The tension would ease permanently if you were present now. That’s certain.

There’s a bottle in the freezer half-gone, one step out the front door like I always am. I’ve got a death grip on your coat just so I can withstand the chaos & for a second, stand upright again. I’m waiting for the lights. Always spectacularly Moulin Rouge red.

Most often I’m tuning out; I’m out of range. Though I’ve lost my Janus-face long ago nothing has changed. Why does it feel like I always have to call the doctor tomorrow? Why is it I always feel afraid? Is anyone else this barricaded? I’m outlining chalk around the body of evidence as we speak.


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