Questions to question

Don’t you know I’m not moving?

That’s what I want to say, when I’m with you.

When we ride the train into the city while night beats its wings at our backs.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, or when that second passes when I scramble to reach the door you’ve held for me, arms outstretched.

Don’t you know?

When I think about the moment I stopped, the moment I first heard your voices swims up into my consciousness.

You know, that night I woke up because you were screaming again.

It turned out that you weren’t.

(Maybe that was a trick from slumber?)

Or should I really ask you,

“Do you know?”

Because I peel seconds away from myself, whole minutes where I know that we are clear.

Crystal, in fact.

I won’t ask you, I promise. Even though I’m still not moving.

Even though the fingers at the edge of my mouth make it smile.

Even though I woke up that night and heard you screaming when you weren’t.

I love you, but I promise.

I won’t ask you if you know that I’m not moving.

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Wednesday Afternoon

It feels like a paper weight–

sitting, rustling, biding time–

It eats at my esophagus,

Nestles in the nook of my rib cage.

 

I don’t like the word “scream,” but I want to.

 

When the musics fades away, It is back.

It munches on my spare time,

My pure thoughts,

My yellow sandals in the corner.

 

Unconsciousness is not sublime.

When will It finish with me?