I will roll like a stone along the path towards the creek
one day soon, I tell you,
tumbling in the pebbles and gruff of the unclear Earth,
scrapes on my knees,
a daisy chain around my neck, I will wade in the cool water
of the creek imagining myself
above the overpass, moving fast in the Northern direction.
The minnows will feast
on my toes and the algae will breathe in my sweat,
the condensation of human nature.
I will eat nothing but the grasses, the grasses of the valley,
the airplane food of the plains,
writhing in the simple web of a fishing net, hallucinating
about the bees and the birds
and the fleet foxes, and I will suffocate in the shallow waters
as the empath in isolation;
I will lie ice dripping cold sweat, plucking the seeds
and the berries of my hallucinations.
I will glow pasty white in the April white as white Iverson
drips from the corners of my mouth
down the drain and into the cool waters of the creek.
My burnt pupils will shrivel
in the sand, salt our great equalizer. I will devolve
into chaos of space
and sand and sweat and trickling tumbling stream.
Breathe in the foxygen
and flee in the direction of the car park where
we sat like smoke
on the leather seats and wished the spring would begin
so I could tumble into the creek
and begin to drown in every tomorrow and all the ones
after that.
About the Creator
Elsie Coen
i am a middle school teacher whose words are not always appropriate for the classroom, but I'm sure as hell they've run their course through those kids' minds. salivate over the words and chew them until they're yours and only yours.
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