~saturnineguise

your splinters of personality crash heavy along my jaw-line, making a dive for the in-between spaces beside each rib
they dig their feet into the hollow of my back and make me arch across myself in a constant closing flower, a bridge to insincere

i called you up a few times, heard you say hello like someone else i used to know, quick and questioning - not like a normal kind of question - but like a question of reality. are you there? no i'm not. and you would've heard a beep beep and not my voice. not my little whispers of breath as i inhaled quick so i would not fall into a heap of myself, melt into a puddle of wicked witch. i can't dissect that, not exactly. i can't tell you why i hate the sound of my voice echoing across porcelain.

i cannot tell you why i do not like people overhearing my conversations. i mean, well, i could, but i cannot. don't ever ask me too much of myself; i don't give secrets away.

i'll just smile at you and dance the swerving, constantly pirouetting dance of changing the subject. but you pick up up up. tell me to forget. i forget the trains, the pulling into the stations, the silent, sound draining way that all noise faded into a blur as fast as my rain dropped to your feet. little eye clouds, little lightning strikes of my teeth, on my mouth.

you didn't ask me.

and i wonder what it is to be held by a memory. an aching distortion of reality. and as years disintegrate into spent calendars and tougher skin, i wonder about the mess we're in. about the way held gazes are swayed so much easier for the knowing. how we do not look this way anymore.