i am trying to speak on the outside of by body. I am digital. I decorate my hip and cheast with lace and then wonder where I left my typewriter, the ink under my fingernails instead of this mud, so many years ago. sometimes I do not have the most direct words. And then I glance at the clock and drop this moment. Move to the next.
Read eight pages into a new book and finally find spreadable tears to lay out over a table, plates holding what I used to be. this is good.
but then, force past each moment to carry on. I am focusing my speech only, only on the outside of my body.
Yesterday when detoured, and walked on the wet earthen salt flats, I felt my ripened clean shoes collecting the grey mud. -Looked down at this more than I realized the colors of the bay. How could I? Still found laughter and saw the mouse pressed into the surface of the mounded earth. Mud under my finger nails to realize the bit of good. But this is all so quiet. it is all so very quiet. and I have catered myself to noise, outside.
I want my insides back. I sincerely want back. but now, not back then.
