feeding frenzy

i like to call this poison healing, though it might seem more like destruction, or at least distraction. erasure, and i bet the word rubber comes from rub rub rubbing out these smudges and smears and changing names so we can reuse old love notes without having to rewrite them. there's dirt in the creases of these blankets, dirt and skin and smoke, and it's been nothing but these fingers for almost two weeks. two weeks! no nose and no earlobes. i started screening my calls when i realized i didn't have that secret cave you're asking about, and i've been shoving falafel balls into the edges of my windows to block the windy reality from getting to my bare eyelashes, and it's been three songs in a row about lightning, but there's no such thing as a good storm in this part of the world. i miss hurricanes and green thunder skies. i like to tell people here stories about our pokeberry war paint and hardwood snobberies, but i can't even recall which one i am.


(i kind of miss being soft and nervous and impressible, being self-conscious and predictable. i kind of miss being bashful and wrapped.)