Day One: Old Bed

I suppose I could remove my pants.

I turned the heater up too high.

I rub my matching tattoo and wonder if you have forgotten that fact.

Usually people throw away singular objects that are missing their symmetrical twin.

Remove flesh, quick and painless.

There is a patch of skin on the backside of my calf, bald.

Rubbing October old scars that healed on the eight thousandth day I was alive.

Bulging and purple like worms clean after rain.

The heat is boiling me, I suppose I could remove my shirt.

Look for all imperfections like smoothing out a transfer sticker on a hard surface.

A body like a map with several levels of depth.

My body is a map of the world.

My world.

I am a map.

Stick your thumbscrew compass into my flesh, measure the amount of body I have with circles, cutting edge refinement in cartography.

Stab me with your compass tongue inside the walls of my geographical desert lands, water glands spewing sand onto your distorted map.

We could be a map of the world together.

A map of conscious viability, become mackled. 

Self impression, double blurred instance of repression.

Over layered wall graffiti of white paste, plastered holes to fill the space my typewriter left a taste of anger in the ugly orange dry wall.

Comfort zone: I will sweat in my sleep. Is that considered exercise?

I'd do anything to say I did anything to help myself become healthy.

I'd do anything to not say anything at all.

Room hot like too many bodies touching after running circles in their heads for words they wish they said to make the room less silent.

The room is hot with or without someone saying 'it's hot in here'

Just as I am losing sleep without someone having to remind it is tomorrow but I am still thinking in today.

Yesterday; shopping late for things like cucumbers, dish soap, frozen entrees, cat liter, canned fruit, sliced ham, bottles of orange juice.

Valentine's aisle, mistaken for deals and sales on quick romance coos for lovers getting fat for an hour on sugar and fake appraisal, one time out of the year.

The rest spent trying to avoid sugar induced sex binges, for strangers hold doors for passerby's that could be next years last minute shopping chocolate box.

Even flowers this time of year are deflowered.

All the same smells but preserved in chemical mist like bodies in a morgue waiting for their turn to be put on display.

Today; only one hour, eighteen minutes, one cup detox tea, two glasses water, one granola bar, continuous sad music playing, twenty minutes of pacing in.

Soak up the heartache when you can, reminds you how you never want to feel again.

First night in my old bed I used to share with a lover, I waited to lay down till it was tomorrow.

A loop hole.

Despondent, my tomorrow started.

A loop.