Futures Flown On Dead KItes

There were faces like ripe dandelions. To wish upon. Lovers like funnel cakes hot and smothered in melting confectioners sugar. Lives stalled in the blink of videotape. As it would wink at us from behind the gauze of crippled moments. Stuck on pause.

There was nail polish in heavy doses. And short skirts that were never short enough. The thunder of chunky heels as the doorbell whispered perfect manias. In cliches of skin.

It couldn't be any easier. Couldn't be any harder. To wake up. To go to sleep. Broken umbrellas. Handcuffed to the storm that's all around us.

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't say anything at all. As I ask my questions. As I beg it to speak. It does nothing. It does everything.

It changes me for the better. For the worse. Turning the pain into meditation. Turning the disease into treatment.

The cure looms larger as I indulge the weakness. Like a hammer above a coffin in a nail. I am flattered by the sickness. How well it treats me. It's so easy to love myself when I'm hopeless. It's easy to see why those plastic dolls have teeth. When there's still so much flesh to chew on.

We get high together. But we're never even close.