experimenting with self sabotage in the form of run on sentences

experimenting with self sabotage in the form of: stripping the bed linens, tossing them into the wash, and running out the door while the moon is high in the night. hours pass but time feels stiff and still as the laundry i left steeping. the sun teases its imminent return through my curtains as i retreat back inside. my body begs to be deserving of cleansing, and my body begs to be spun through the machine until the threads come undone.

i open the fridge with my right arm, using my left hand to pinch my contact lenses out from my tired eyes. my vision blurs. i chug the remaining cranberry juice cocktail from the gallon i bought a week ago. none of it has been drunk from a cup, this is reserved for cheap attempts at salvation. cleanse the palate like nothing ever happened. my mouth aborts the memory as it’s still finding a shape to inhabit.

my body aches as if i’ve been shape-shifting, molding myself into knots in hopes to release something. to crack a knuckle. to scratch some sort of itch. i stretch the linen fitted sheet across the mattress, eating scraps of anything i gathered from the kitchen. I should remember to eat before i’m dizzy. I should remember to drink water before my rough edges start to chip. I should remember to collapse into a hollow sleep, but i’ve already gotten crumbs everywhere. i've already compared this skeleton to the things that would’ve rolled off of someone else’s tongue.

i spoil my body, indulging when my thoughts subside about the future and my feelings forget the past and i am only present, only breathing in exactly the space and time where my eyes roll backwards…where my poor excuse of a spine curves backwards…where i am relapsing into a temporary something.

in a broken mirror, i smiled with bloodshot eyes. i winked slyly at the splintered reflection, laughed at the way i can still seduce myself. i stood in that bathroom a few moments too long; i had to shake myself to remember I have been here before. the vines laugh like hyenas at me, we whimper and wilt together. the fever dreams aren’t when i am asleep anymore, i lay wide awake on the operating table.

there are three ghost remnants on my left thigh, yellowed and fading like my energy. i smile again, this time keeping it a secret. 

constellations or contusions?
constellations or contusions?