I feel like i am retiring from the rusty chairs of mine.
this amniotic liquid evaporating slowly.
the blurred lines fading like dusk
the oil, hushing my ink.
and the unnatural baskets of dreams( the hallucinations where the mind is a myth)
i become lush and marked, thin veins drying.
stigma eating my mouth first,
and then my olive hands.
my ear often bleeds clandestine words
emancipating like a ghost,
How do i walk? how do i sleep?
These irregular modals of life sticking me to my lone windowsill.
i am a vase to my empty body now.
holding firmly, like mothers touch.
the roots stoic in the arms of brown bride.
and i hold myself
quiet and dark
dark and slow.