flicking dry scabs


I’m too damn tired to use pretty words.

It’s like a golf ball, spat from the maw of a lamprey, making for your left eye at fifty thousand miles an hour. Everything goes gray. The trees twist into unwelcome signs and people gasp and steer clear of your black hole of an eye.

Plastic pencil sharpeners pour out the cannonball mouth of the ass end of a factory belt, painted food-coloring-orange or metro-black, ready to chip nails and slit fingertips. If you cut your skin while sharpening a pencil, all the words wormed inside the graphite will spear your fingerprints with ghastly sperm and viral eggs, meeting in a miscarriage that scrawls indelible flaws over your palm’s inscription.

Life, I find, is like a sheet of paper torn from a spiral notebook. Shreds ghost off the edge, half-holes are left to mark the spots like moldy cheese where your hand comes too close to the frilled margin. Big, shambling words, tripping, dizzy on painkillers, dangling off one line and into the lower. You have one word left to say at the end, so you have to start another line, all by itself. Nothing more will come; you’ve broken your pencil.

From afar, the golfers squint at the corners of their terrain, wondering how hard they can hit you on the way between hole one and hole two and still keep their athletic scholarship. You glare back. A smirk is candy; a downcast glance is a cotton butterfly to lift your heart for up to a full second. Why do they always golf when it’s dry out and the moon lounges between the barbed-wire fence and the eggshell sky?

You’re too damn pretty to ask such tired questions.


Image credits in order of appearance:

By BazzaDaRambler – Bath … flower basket., CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22698810

By Jo Power from Ostende, Aywaille, Belgique – L’INTROSPECTION…, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10411662


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