I smell like lipstick and rubber and burnt out cigarettes and my feet make noise on the pavement.
I’ve decided that for exactly 48 hours I’ll just shut my brain off and let myself fall into the fog. I’ll tap my feet on the streets and look through people with glazed eyes and maybe stare too long on the subway in the hopes that I will wake up somewhere that I haven’t been before.
I’m locked in here. In a cage where the bars are skin and the lock and key reside in a far off place that everybody says we can just get to with enough time and practice and effort.
I’m huddled up into the corners looking for those things and making sure that I don’t miss any of them as if they are things that can just pass by.
When I tell you words aren’t coming they are they’re just not the ones I want to say. I have a book of those ones, several actually, and I keep them locked in a box so that nobody ever sees them.