Accessorizing a borrowed life with faces –
no names – they’re unnecessary.
Don’t complicate the process by streamlining
a story made prettier by scar tissue, scabbing.
A fault line runs through the doubting
air, fat on it’s own labor, like lighting
cigarettes on sunburnt backs. The first one always
clouds the breathing space
like too many clouds in too little sky.
A single teabag in the bathtub where
life gets stored, wrinkled-skin shining
toward a sleeker consumption. Borderlands fold inside out.
Don’t look anything in the eye. There’s a smoke
storm coming. A cigarette exhaled in someone
else’s kitchen. Riddle-red cheeks fade back into
We’ve been here the whole time.
Image found here