I spent the week with my words curdling at the tips of my lips.
“It’s a side effect,” they said, “to being a poet right?” Crying. Like darkness is the absence of light, and light is an absence of dark- sometimes feeling too much and not at all cause the exact same thing- absence of sight.
So I spent my week blind, but I got by alright. I stalled out a couple times. You know, that’s what happens when I shut down, become sarcastic and shine the best scowl possible. My parts can’t get my process in order so I unstart myself. It’s amazing I got anywhere, never mind out of the lot.
My face was blue from spending the better part of three days choking on my own breath.
When I got back to my apartment, on a Thursday that wreaked of weekend, I tried to solve a financial fane with a saintly patience but the clock timed out. Monday morning promises its ship on the horizon, and I hope without an army it’s my fleet and not a pirate.
I put too much sugar in my coffee, even though I stomach black. I chased it with a beer to mimic the sensation of being in my own skin again. I smile when the contents of my cup swirls, creating a soft ripple. It’s the one thing I call my own today, and can if only for a moment.
I looked down at my once white undershirt that’s now an ivory. I sport my denim vest like my armor. I’m comfortable in black because it can wear the night sky.
I thought of myself in such a way that made my energy clean, in that I’m fringed and fragmented in all the right ways. I thought of the carbon copied houses on the outskirts of my city, and the ones I left in this year’s version of a century. I shed some spirit, releasing the earthquake in my chest. With my back against the cupboard and my eyes on the setting sun, I took a deep breath, I lived bohemia.