What will they find, after the tests? What if nothing is wrong? Am I crazy to think that nothing could be wrong? Is it ridiculous to assume there is?
The email only said that I was dead already, a shadow, dead Woolf and dead Dickinson. I only mentioned the way Time whispers in my ear every morning and each hour that all is futile, that all is death eventually.
What is happening? I suppose I really do only have my words now.
Oh, I don't want to be probed.
I fled like a madman, not unlike the mad woman I am.
What else is there to do but run for my life?
And I give up my last cigarette so easily.
How can I run from everything? Where does that leave me? Do I exist in some separate plane, an alternate reality? Am I a third world of myself?
I will run, but for how long? To what end? How long can the rain cover, shield, blend my tears?
Or maybe it can't.
A wet cigarette wasted in the rain,
tossed on cement, discarded - itself
slimy surfaces, slipping pen and running nose
walk with no intentions, she says
I'll do just that
About Me
- alia
- "too much stuff, too many places, too much information, too many people, too much of things for there to be too much of, there is too much to know and i don't know where to begin but i want to try."
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