Bedbugs XLII

Bedbugs XLII


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She tells me the news by writing it on the back
of her hand which is now made of stitched patchwork
parchment and my jaw cracks the wood finish next
to my shoe. They promised they'd heal her but nothing
is real unless you put up 50% on deposit it seems.
I dig at the walls and leave nail bits and the best parts
of my fingerprint for history to clean up.
Another pretty lady steps up to the microphone-
both are from the 20's. Where is the light coming from?
She sings and all of us pretend she's singing to us.
Lying to ourselves is the way to fill in the parts of your story
that never came true. Multiple copies of me in the field, it's winter
but mists and light rains dance on them. They're upset too. Noises
outside our door; it's the past. I was hoping it'd be
delivered sooner. Waiting through the rest pattern and I jump
up at the prospect that I've gone back to when it all seemed
like it was going in our favor. But it's still today. The wood in
the walls is damp and decaying and rusting in the same pattern
I am. Secrets told; hear it only in my left ear, the right one is ringing
with excuses for why we didn't prosper. Knowing embrace they
paid for, the lost audience turns back as she struggles
to be heard over the violins. The drugs make it
sound beautiful. Maybe it is. This body is
getting in the way of real experience; the hallways are covered
in it.



next week's seven phrases/groups of words:


-the moment has been prepared for
-man in white on the top of it
-44 years of denial
-make me wait for anything real
-exactly four years ago
-Dad's health is improving
-can't wait for you forever



-Adam