Anchorite Asceticism, 3

In a quiet, tired place – dreaming about lightning. Starting to count fire ants, naming the ones that bite me. It’s surprising but they feel like you – sharp and red and frightening. The desert has not changed a grain since I ran out of smokes. It whistles when it’s lonely and it plays its petty jokes on me with visions of mirages while I sort the blurred collages of the old things I remember – squirming and writhing together as if time were just a reason why things don’t all happen now. The desert has no secrets; nothing here to figure out which is why I look so confusing standing starkly in contrast. My brain has two folders – one is present, one is past and there is nothing else beyond that, nothing but emptier days. Pretty girls do not make promises, shadows cast no shade. I also dream of oceans and the arctic and rain clouds. I’ve been away so long I think my brain’s begun to doubt that such fantastic things exist – even right now as I itch my ashy elbows and create new dust from flakey dried up skin. I wrote you something here that I revise every night. I’ll never give it to you; I am waiting for the right amount of flames to catch a throw and watch it melt like highway snow so that the message will be carried wherever the wind blows and then I spread my sleeping bag and sleep upon the ground.


~ by perfectionatrix on September 19, 2011.

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