SICK CYCLE

Today is a trap. Empty roar shakes a forest, a flock flees straight through my chest, I learn that you cannot put living makeup on a corpse. Something about body heat. I am cold, and deep into the woodland, the line of trees thicken. Something swells inside, pleasing the forest floor.

If the trees are pretty, nothing else matters.

Some things are like other things. Gritty analogies:

Baking bread is like kneading your own tummy.

Dry is like skin.

Brain fog is like body memories.

A murmuring cafe is kinda like silence.

After forgetting all day, I blame my genetics for giving up. I remember, wired wrong, half-dead, and my dread, like most things, is plentiful. This is the fastest I've moved all day, (I am not running, I should be) 

I am stepping in (my body is wired to resist death) the kitchen, braving grimey tiles. It is easy to ignore dirt, especially if only feet are expected to endure it.

Sometimes I shrink when my stomach doesn't. I forgot all day!

Forget my skin, bones, and teeth, forget why I entered the kitchen.

I have this theory that you only remember quicksand when you are knee-deep.

unfortunately,

redundantly,

that is too late.

Poem by Ari

Art by Tye King