Waking while sleeping, Walking while laying

When you bike home you can feel the warm air hitting your face, it passes over it like water. Like your name that your mother gave you. The pool that envelops me in the shape of a sphere is warm tonight, feeling like kisses on my skin. When I imagine my torso, it is different than the physical shape of my container. You notice the faces as you bike by, if there was a remote you would hit pause and all their faces would be stuck with a wide open mouth in the shape of a smile. People’s reactions are strong when they first meet you. What is it about you that draws lighter ones your way? Why does the scent of the flowers draw unwanted hands?

You flinch because the raising of the hand surfaces other memories that you thought were buried under the bedrock that is you continuing to wake up each day and submerge them deeper into the Earth’s crust when you wake up and get out of bed. You want to break the hands that reach out towards you with open hands when you did not summon them. You want to do something about the jeers that spontaneously combust from the faces of passer by when you leave your front door.

They bring the reality that is the shock of your mother,father, and grandmother when they see your fingernails. You’re shocked by living normally and adorning yourself as you would see fit.Time to not think about not making it, you think to yourself as you bike down the unfolding road back to norside that is your constant worry that is rooted in the past and is budding from the seed of [error] and error. Ticktickticktickticktick you think something is stuck in the spokes. You were biking when you were suddenly slammed to a stop, almost toppling over the bike, and falling off of the bridge of “holding it together”. You look down into the wheels and its a graphic scene of your younger self. You somehow got caught in here when you came to the present when you were younger. When you bought your past self into the present that we are in. They moan about the car. The car you were in when you told your father. Before you had flowers. They then repeat his silence as you share a moment and they pass away in front of you again.

Life is so interesting when you didn’t plan to see this far. Every day the sun seems brighter than usual. I feel the heat within the cells of my melanin all that much more. I humidity in the hair, I imagine as a black person hugging me on a couch on a friday night. They are my friend and we’re eating food and supporting one another with our respective presences.The rain feels harder though and the cold freezes the sphere of water around you- trapping you within. The lightning bugs remind you of the time in which your neighborhood was the environment that you roamed and grew in. The formative years that shaped the vines of change into your bone marrow and budded the flowers forth from your hair. The chirping of cicadas and the sensation of pages against your finger in the sunset- the smell of dried ink.This marks the time and space in which you were able to exist.

My flowers keep dying My flowers keep dying My flowers keep dying

Does anyone from Norfolk ever talk to you about Joel? Your Uncle? Your father?

How long has it been since you’ve last seen _____? Can you picture their face or did you forget?

I find it hard to let go of people. To relate to another person takes a lot of my energy, so to avoid this you rip out an organ from your sternum- it’s a flower, and you place it in the soil of their skin and let it bud. Please don’t cut the stems of the flowers we made? What do you mean I can’t see them?

Who are the people that you’re still waiting for an apology from?

Whats the wifi code to forget about the vines that grew over my body when I was younger and prevented me from doing things that I wanted. That melted into clasped hands over my own heart in between the pictures of my parents.I keep feeling the shackles on my wrists. They hurt.

Are you going to be able to forget about the people you want to talk to but will never see? Asking for a friend. As a friend.

Does your mother’s voice sound like honey? Mine’s does.

I wish often that I were able to sing so I could express my love to nature’s beauty. You think you saw a pile of leaves blowing in a circle just now. He’s right beside you as you bike down that bridge. Did you see him? You did? Which one?

Your younger self is still caught in the spokes. Your reach down to untangle the mess. How did we reach this again? Being happy is feeling closer to what we were as children, before the world poured through the cracks in the ceiling.

I wanna say that I’m sorry but I keep loosing my voice, and I forgot who

They told you to stop holding so much tension in your neck. Another knot that you just can’t get out. You’ll keep rubbing it though. The front of your throat feels painful. I didn’t even yell, but he still left anyways.

It always does (they always do)

As you bike you see a trail of flowers bud from where you back wheel just was.