DivyaThis morning, I wokegasping, sticky-limbed, cryingto an angel on theceilingthat eclipsed the sun that had hidfrom me, my whole life,the spilled eyes of glasses,my shy and foolish utteringsthat struggled to sufficeunder the weight of itswings, a smooth moon ofwhite, the earnestbowl of roses that cut likejewels, bright stoppers in themouth - I lay therelegs open to the ceilingmouthing my sincerities, tonguestartled by my angel, lipshitching at silk, thumbingfor a ridehome.
~days eat dayslike I eat potato chipsmonotonouslyon a couch whosesprings have thrown outtheir backs no longer ableto hold even the remote up.it sinks between the seats likeI do every lonely saturday nightor every evening I can’t quitemake it to bed, cupped withsimilar back problems,a similar sag.I’ve begun totake after my furniture."the only unattractive curve,"a girl once said to me with a fewdesirable curves herself,"is the one a person developsin their back.”we dated for a month andshe called me herhunchback of notre dome(it’s dame, babe.)and I called her beautiful.just beautiful. and nothing else.but somehow her leaving did nothingto straighten my bent back butonly managed to deepenmy parenthetical stance onthose who love me(they don’t exist).