outside my window nothing and no one falls. there is no rain here. no sudden striking love. there is a cracked asphalt driveway and garages always open. autumn has decided we are not worth its time. a concrete jungle painted crudely in the greens of summer. pink if we’re lucky. there is nothing to symbolize and nothing to declare but we like to watch the colors in moonlight.
they are biting bullets across the street and i am swallowing them whole. if i hold enough of anything inside of me maybe i will become the weapon. god knows words weren’t enough. i am an encyclopedia of nothing; no order. language is my second tongue and action my first. i swallow bruises and speak in punches, think: one of these will land. the world’s an enemy, right?
i awake from red wine dreams on sunday, don’t go to church. turn my eyes to the ground and ask the devil to give me another sword to swallow. i could be good at this. the days are sludge, hearts dragging behind me in the snow, chains on tires. there are no winters here. the circus is more alive at night but i don’t know if i am watching or walking a tightrope and praying i don’t fall. i don’t pray to anything. how do the birds do it? they are not afraid to believe in nothing. they sit on powerlines and watch me sit on my porch and they do not watch this but i am crumbling a bit. this is the real circus. i don’t need to go anywhere.
my room carries the bitter stench of apathy and i fear i am the source. limbs holding their breath and swallowing. i did not think i did this but then one morning i woke up with sleeping arms.