Another.

listening to: The Roots-You Got Me Ft. Erykah Badu


Let us lament in the shawl of early morning, bask in the bouquet of our quinescence.

but I'm not dormant, I'm not in a state of diapause. These changes saran wrap me but I don't migrate to different islands, I stay fixed to the concrete beneath. I am the black sheep of the species, the flock, the scoundrels, the hungry, the fed, the satiated, the dead.

I am.

I don't know what I want to say or if it matters, but I suppose these digital deposits of text stretched across cyberspace, a black background of 600 twip, must compensate for lack of pen stroke to journal tip.

And so I.

Write this to commemorate the felt too often feeling of longing to mark my thoughts into the physical before the food coma, exhaustion from the lectures, catching up in classes, and conversations wash away make up's memories worn on my face from the day passed.

I will begin to try to derive these memories and crochet them together with these two knitters, my fingers, my fists, the bitter aftertaste in my mouth after 3 AM jack in the box that lingers, begs me to stop this quick fix satisfaction of quickly prepared food to pallet for lack of wallet I have the mallet to swing swing in delirium, sway around apartment like redrum.

I the plump, she a plum. no fruit more ripe than before menopausal plunge.

these lungs
they heave
these breaths
they leave

eyelids they
anchors
4 AM pulls down
the shutters
and dim lights
of this hallway
fade to black