I hold up a hand that unravels like sand. I watch pieces of myself drop away, like a flurry of pages falling from the hand of a composer. Falling from the grasp of Salieri upon reading the compositions of Mozart.
My bones beneath are lengths of fugue. Delirium skeins that curl in upon themselves. I frown at my forearm, trying to remember something important. What was it?
I stare long enough to stir my stomach. It's the return to the comfort of sadness. I feel the yearning again in shades of greyscale. The bittersweet suction of the conditioning of months. Misunderstanding and unknowability nourish the marrow of my skeletons.
I pretend that the closet can go on holding them forever. Self-induced confusion comes easily when my muscles are reinforced by it.
12:51 a.m. - 2014-06-26
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