Friday, August 24, 2018

25 August 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. We bathe us in our blood money, covering arms and shoulders with it, bearing it down stairs to join our families, seated on their blood-red couches. Everyone was so relaxed, wiping blood off their plates, their forks, their teeth. Her smile beamed red until gravity changed its hue. The house fits; no corner outgrows itself into dim and unannounced hallways. There are no rats, no mice, hardly any roaches to drink from puddles, carry the thick substance in sippy cups to their young. Despite the blood, floors are clean, walls hung with over-familiar paintings. In one, a girl seems to writhe on the bed, a cat's fur stretched like orange taffy until it blurs. “Many victims feel this way.” The scent of the old man's breath inhabits the stuffed chair he sat in. Great pretender. In a dream, he comes to ask where he should go and is sent away for good; but still he comes back, holding the promise of suicide on his palm, the lure of self-hate. He was a very careful man whom we care for even in his death. What dreams his ashes have at the top of the ridge near the bunkers, finally able to fly from the broken need of his blood. The other will be a stronger man for this, I'm told, his pale face filling with color as he re-organizes his memories in a bank. But how can he reclaim his blood, and where to put it inside? There's a broken fingernail, a sore thumb, a cut on his ankle. Hand me the siphon, the needle; let me dig in.

--24 August 2018

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