My head is littered with aborted things. Ideas. Images. Words. People.
Scraps heaped and gathered into piles around the room. This makes the room feel occupied. Warm like someone is alive here. So I leave the mess and wait for whoever it is to return home.
I will watch this person pull into the driveway, walk through the door, take off their shoes, and move into the rooms and live, or do whatever makes the room this way. The aftermath of
I push the arms and other appendages into closets and under the beds. The couches are all full between the cushions. The cushions are being squeezed out by the bodies, foreign and domestic.
I keep trying to say something but I do not know what words I need to say it. Maybe I only need the saying and the particular words are not as important. Say things, not something. It is in the saying, the multiple. I don't know what "it" is. It does not matter.
What I keep trying to say is that I am standing here covered in blood and I still haven't found the essence, whatever moves underneath trying to be on the surface for once even though the outside air will crack its lungs.
I am letting my ideas die and killing the ones that refuse to be born.
Henry Darger once told his neighbor that he had been raped by a gorgeous 17 year old Italian girl.
It is late. It feels like dinner time. I am hungry. Maybe I'm just bored.