twenty three minute nonstop, iteration one

tweeting birds and the sunshine - rain falling outside while I sit in bed. the chrome coated computer, heavy like lead and hot like I expected my insides (damp, the same temperature as my fingers) to be, resting on my thighs. it leaves red marks. I pull strips of fish off of my bagel. I type without hitting the sticky (process--> messy, stu-, sticky) tab key. 

the cats are out of sight. 

I am alone at home. 

Sometimes I wake up and notice my body rocking, subtle movements facilitated by hips and shoulders. I curl in on myself, strange intertwinements. 

My arm hooks under my bent knees, the other splays over my chest. The give there surrenders in intervals to bone. My ribs go soft at their insertion points. My eyes - I c a n not tell, are they open or shut? I mistake the backs of my sockets for a scene in front of me. I try to find it. 

The jade plant to my left, 

      flicks 

I can almost feel the condensation on my claw tips. I take lush, fat little leaves off and split them on my nails. It goes out of focus while I stare at the air directly to it’s left. 

I was reading our old emails today and I accidentally fell in love again

I wonder if your feelings (sentiments) have change 

do you still like my mind? has it changed too much? how did you begin liking it like that in the first place. 

Your lips look soft, but alive. I associate softness with rot. The thick scar twining down your spine. Someone - you - 

cannot feel every part of the healed skin 

the room is made of pastels and shadows. leaking. 

i always expect myself to be a little warmer than I actually am. 

coolness in my clenching torso 

in my lungs and throat 

my teeth, at least, are warm

I do not brush them enough. They are smooth against my tongue. Lukewarm liquid gathers in my mouth and I swallow. It has only been ten minutes and I already want to give up. To close my eyes. The walls swell, breathing 

old sea child with hair and fingers, a loose outline of the old body. some parts are missing. split and open. please, the subset starts again, hissing. 

Awhile ago someone else on this website said that they wished they could more enjoy their sadomasochistic tendencies. I thought it might be you. I still sometimes wish that you want (ed) to do sadistic things to me but also like that you don’t want to 

is there some measure of disdain we are lacking? am I not good enough at math? 

Now that I know you better, I am not so invested in it anyways. I would still let you cut me open without thinking about it. I know I might not enjoy it in practice

but the concept is sort of 

mouthwatering? appealing in a way that makes me notice more than the percussive beating of my heart and fingers as they shift over the keyboard 

the touching, when i stop paying attention, is negligible. 

Dear Thing, 

It is the night. I am lonely sometimes. We do not spend enough time together. 

Dear Night, 

 I am busy, bettering myself. I have time for you, this is when. eight oh three 

how cool the feel of icing fingers the tendrils sink into the spaces between your spinal protrusions. 

you writhe, a little, shake your head and cry for your lost legs. your mind spreads thin over a new medium. the images are better through these cameras. your body continues it’s childish rebuttal against brutalities 

but there is no more real upset