To People Who Sometimes Read

I’m so hung over. It’s like I’m living inside of someone’s big-drifting-leg. Maybe a banker’s and his mustache is waxed. I’m tired. I’m not impressed when I hear double speak. Antelope deer, road rage, strobe lights. The successful factory, the one still standing and working, is only planned math. I don’t judge a book by its insides either. Remember that time I tried so hard to rhyme? It was perfect. Like a white gale blowing off a storm.

I found next-door to be a place that I always wanted to go in the basement of.  Could be the need to live with another in a bomb shelter. Later in the field is something different. Where a man opens up and forgives me for something. That hole of love.

I hold a man inside with all the pieces, old and new. It doesn’t matter if I get down on my knees, crawling with grace and there’s tunnels and microscopic continents fueled together. Before Africa was in its entirety, it was made up of islands. I see myself beginning again, entirely new since I’ve met my left breast with the inlet of an ocean, my desire desired. No motivation to push my breast against the heart-of-the-matter. My ruins tailored apart, the close and inviting blubber of a beached whale. An island close to another island both depend on one another to share the scarcity of resources. I flail between the two, am the dream of some broken promise, a wrecked cargo ship lying on its side. I tear apart old love letters. My fingers gash and swell with paper cuts and buttery tears. I am still loved in the shape of carp. I am still amused by the sea even if my insides are trembling and my mind is insipid. There is still a deep lamination over my love. I am cutting the tape back, I am practicing my scissor techniques.

I think I am quiet towards the end of the night because my food is still digesting and growing and becoming a part of my skin. This blanket is made to look like the outdoors. I want to die sleeping, the end of my life just one big prism reflecting beds with little children. I think dreaming and falling to death are the same thing. My bed is filled with books and without mentioning it or motioning towards them they are my enemy.

by Paige Taggart

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