August 13, 2005 - 7:22 a.m.
i want to make it better by not thinking
by making myself better than it
but my foot's still in the door,
caught like yesterday when I smashed my ankle between the screen door and the frame.
slashed achilles,
unplugged, but still tuned it
I need a break, from hunger and restraint
from the fear of needing and not getting.
the words make sense even now,
like i knew they would
without having a reason to believe
yet, instinctively squeezed by their prophetic accuracy
i knew it would be me,
has been me
the one with that alien hunger
the double edge of desire
that keeps me just slightly afraid of it.
the mobius strip, punctured,
through the ribs, deflating
the beauty of it
against the drained, pale skin
so long without sun
from sources outside of
my own mind
