-I finally got it.
And it knocked my life senseless.
Suddenly, I am not the one here anymore.
I can’t actually feel my limbs or head.
Somehow, I stopped tolerating the clock like sound
that originates from my subconscious.
But I'm not dead, Far from that.
All the thoughts have become audible. Laughable. Listen:
Thoughts can and will eventually transmit
the most incredible imagery.
One should be prepared to communicate.
- Can you actually hear me?
She refuses to negotiate.
Testing, one, two, three.
Everyone’s third eye is watching me.
I was not able to avoid it anymore,
finally hit the bottom with the following inventory:
My twelve year old car;
Uncountable sleepless nights,
One broken contract;
A purple heart;
Huge pile of bills.
I've been exposed.
My absence left footprints
on the bedroom's blue carpet.
But who can blame me for my lack of attendance?
You, with your autistic omens.
Can you actually hear me?
Time has been twisting tranquility
and perverting our atmosphere;
We were seen by our neighbors, pointing fingers at:
An air so pure that constricted the lungs;
A pressure so light that anchored me to the ground;
Alimony.
My silence left footprints.
People will eventually just get tired, and walk away.
There is an evident complexity
in moving witnesses from one place to another.
All of my friends were her friends first.
The due process.
Can’t seem to access my memories. - I said.
We all need explanations.
- They said.
People from the jury:
My older memories have self-isolated,
Self-crystallized, for the lack of trust in my potential.
For new optimistic resolutions;
Kind of a new beginning?
- I blame you.
You blame my biological imperatives.
Well, it’s hard to believe that I can’t actually reach
for my caramelized reminiscences of you.
Maybe it's this pressure,
Maybe we got nothing to dwell about.
Maybe everything was a lie.
Selective blindness circumscribing pieces,
with cute yellow ribbons:
- Evidence A;
- Evidence B
- etcetera, etcetera.
Latin is weighing heavily on my tongue,
inciting, inciting me to drool;
clearly people see a lot more connotation
attached to my person in your reflection.
Mr. cheating bastard.
You cannot actually blame the skin for surrendering;
foreskin.
You probably would have done the same.
I’m watching someone just out of law school
making such an effort to compress time and space.
The twisting and turning of my tripe,
to acquire my dirty little secrets.
- I am not a pig.
Your honor, this is an open and shut case.
The consequences were becoming clear by the marching of time:
My side of the closet - in a box
since Spring cleaning.
The Babel tower periodically crashing down in the middle of our living room
The life-loop.
My precocious midlife crisis.
The rusty Eiffel tower
The smelly rivers of Venice;
Rome burning.
Digital photos were our last alibi.
Nakedness was still my best camouflage;
- This house is going down.
Are you, or are you not guilty
of throwing your life away?
Remember, you are under oath.
That was all in the past by now.
-I won't find someone new.
No speed dials. No more lies
Are your pupils dilated?
The truth, the whole truth and nothing
but the truth?
Does this shit really interest you?
My lack of vocabulary is clear.
The Scrutinizing eye
That never blinks or gets tired, pink or sore, It just gets
bored.
Does it rock your world?
- No kids. Just the house.
All that we have said to each other
is carved into those walls;
walls;
walls;
walls;
What will possible circumvent me now?
