Beds

Ever feel like you've got too many words in your head for them to come out?

They won't make sense to you.

They don't make sense to me.

My skull literally feels heavy.

My heartbeat is slowly chugging in my ears.

It reminds me of you; quiet and determined.

I can't focus on one thing, my eyes shift.

Walls.

Keys.

Skin.

Bed.

Empty space.

Toes twitching thoughtlessly.

Biting my lips.

Pinkie hits the Return.

Again.

This isn't poetry.

There is no order.

No chronology.

There is no stream of consciousness.

That shit dried up.

Everything's flooded and I've got dust on my tongue.

Tan lines hide who I am.

Fuck this face.

I'm just peeking at who you used to be.

Who you never were.

Seeing who I want you to be through squinted eyes.

Biting nails.

Tongues.

Shoulders.

Printed words slow my breath.

Definitions come so easily.

You can't Google people.

Not really.

I can type the letters; I still have no clue who you are.

You come out slowly.

Through thumbs and half-smiles.

I need to step out of the light.

I'm afraid someone will see me.

But I want them to.

Don't I?

Walking heart strings like high-wires.

I practice without a net.

But I want to fall.

Don't I?

There's no center ring here.

No rings at all.

Never will be.

Only inside my ears.

I need another 45 away from me.

Assume another identity and look for myself there.

Bringing things back up.

How you've grown.

Take criticism and run with it.

Perfect your flaws.

Write your wrongs.

Piece by piece by piece.

Bye.