Half of the flowers are dried and dead.
The other half blossoming, in bloom.
I shall cut the dead heads off and carry them around in my womb.
Place them in my room.
A bouquet of dried and gone for every section of the house.
Boy and I whisper of grand plans.
I am happy.
The rest of my text may appear to negate my last sentence.
It does not.
My head hurts and spins.
I wish to cut.
My body is hot with fever yet I am not ill.
I want to take off my clothes and dive into a black pool.
A black hole.
Have you ever been suspended in time?
Sometimes I forget my name. It is only when I remember I have no name that I remember it again.
Ahhh, yes. There in the silence. There on their lips. Under their breath. In murderers eyes.
It is early, it is late and my skin is still together.
The birds chirp all the way through the night now, always searching, always calling out for something. I lie awake with my black tongued insomnia and listen intently for their secret directions. I'm always a step away. One chirp short of understanding. I lay in my bed, my wings concrete, while they fly away before morning. My mourning. But only until I roll over and smile.
Tornado dreams and rampage head.
But it is late and I speak as if I have an audience. And I have none. For there is no one I am speaking to in this room full of people.
I shall litter the hallway with scraps, then. With puddles of colour. So that the next man to walk through it sees not the black and blue inhale but instead his colourful footprints.
Walking down the narrow and sharper than his heartbeat.
How claustrophobic to know oneself.
But no prettier feet for distraction.
I miss cutting my chest open and dumping my guts on you.
Now they fly around in orbit for the gallery-goers to look at.
I ought to be a whore.
I ought to charge more at the door.
Or perhaps that requires more of a show.
Unfinished Work - 'As It Is'