My frustration is beyond resolve. Hitting me in the back of my neck. Causing my head to ache. I’m cold. Inside. Where I inhale icecaps. My heart in a deep freeze. My intestines gridlocked. Not a good time to call me. To ask how I’m doing. To talk about the weather. My thoughts are a dark forest green. Caterpillars crawl across the screen making my eyes itch. Wringing my tongue out. Discarding old stories. He made me sit on his lap. And so did he. And so did he. There was this one time a woman pulled me between her legs. Made my teeth sharp. Fingernails pulled back her skin. Blood ran across town. Now my skin drips while the news yells NAZI as my doors slam shut. Friends keep turning pages. Pretty soon I’ll slide off the scale and need a manufacturer's license to get back on. I have no idea where they makes those. I’ll ask my husband. He’ll have some sort of response that’ll never leave his lips. It’s like that broken chair in the movie theatre that I keep getting stuck with. So I cover my eyes and kneel before it praying to the movie stars like the mangy dog I am. Grafitti replaced the sunset. Fantastic shades of grey and blue with black felt marks across red paint. When I squint I see the words for this year. WAIT. COWARD. HOME. There’s a hand on my thigh pushing my skirt up to the 3rd floor. I need to find the down escalator. I know she’s here somewhere. I’ll look behind the couch. Rivers flow but I can’t find the bridge. I need to get to the other side before it’s too late and my ink turns to snake. Time to chew on his tentacles and quench my lust. Skulls knocking on the beds door. I ask him to grab the crowbar but he forgets what he came back for. My flowers dried up. And coughing is no longer an option. So I smear beeswax across my cheeks and hope for the best.
The Collective Underground