by elvie suzuki
no choice there is no choice except for:
but to sleep and wake up plagued by lack of attention for anything, those precious things we know sometimes—
waiting for the next day, or the next day after that, or whenever it’s safe to pick up. and i do the thing again i don’t remember what i did, years and years.
oh they’re not done with me yet. that’s where i drown me out, double duty. your hard, harder to concentrate except a pillowed, cautious one-fingered stroke, ‘just looking at it,’ for where there is none, and it’s just a matter of the liver screaming out, but there are several layers between you and me, a biology i’d rather not have.
out of the muck. out of the money dwizzlers.
sit down with freshly cut bristol board, snipped off short and sit with the ink in anticipation of a charmed thing. i can’t. it is suggested i’m allergic, but the pharmacies just don’t help at all.
then we set our clocks forward to stay away from the nighttime.
winter: eyes water, some days they sting. in the summer it’s hard to breathe and i sigh and folks ask, what is wrong. you can’t say you have a chronic illness caused by living, so it must be the sleep. sleep all summer.
spring: is the worst, because here in southern california, it’s just like summer except everyone wants to fuck. to muster up the energy to fuck when all you want to do, all you should be doing anyway is sleeping.