Battered and loose, I return from the self-slaughter. Worn joints cry out as I lift a small glass to my mouth. I taste the blood in the pockets of gums and I get woozy through remembrance. It becomes difficult to adjust my weight, to sigh, to hold up my arms. Sleep bears down and suffocates in its embrace. I feel both swollen and saggy as I collapse and the impact jars up tiny points of liquid light. The darkness swoops in like a hungry raptor.
Haiku of the Day:
old ladies tumble
rehearsals push to the grotesque
spitting out the spite
Today's "365" Project (Do something microscopic. Helps to have a scientist for a fiance)
"Pop Rocks"
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