Eyebrows In Remission

The lamp made a green sun on the wall. The construction paper sort a child might draw. The refrigerator wheezed as I tore into its chest. Grabbing a capillary then leaving it alone again with its asthma. The green sun looked familiar as it blinked at me from its very beige canvas. A differential spotlight for all those moments famous only for how quickly we forget.

The green sun. A cartoon eye staring at the anvils over my head.

The kitchen floor was baked frigid and flat against the earth below. Recylced swamp constantly exhaling the stench of my every confession. Written in footsteps too quiet to hear. Lit by green suns too close to show.

The treason that writes us. When we're fumbling with the chilled cardboard hampers from which we retrieve our wardrobe. Dressed in trails of stale breadcrumbs our lives have left.

Lost inside walls so beige.

the stench of repetion swollen inside every breath.