I’ve cultivated anxiety in pots on the window sill. I’ve breaded the heats of passion with the flavors of a painful chill. I’ve cut to the bone, drew blood from a stone and killed every darling dream. I’ve made all my callings silent with the might of a muffled scream.
I put memory on a pedestal. I feed, protect and caress it with ardent fervor. Its glutinous retention consumes, refines and terrorizes me. Memory recognizes me only in the periphery, Never allowing me to meet it head on. It has an inherent infatuation to screw me over.