Violent imperfections

by Charlotte E. Wilde

  I hover again on another 3AM where this time I’m discovering how the lights of my unwanted skyline lend themselves to new memories like so many Russian dolls. Moments are as fickle as anything else, I suppose. Or maybe when my minds blades have processed and blended a person or an experience enough times over it just trickles away.

My fingers are so cold they forget to hold on to the determinism I’ve been keeping in my pocket next to my agency or regret. I suppose I’m dangerous because I  intermittently want everything and nothing and simultaneously all at once. Stretched truths are things I avoid with ardor, but what of the lies we tell ourselves?

I wonder if my insides aren’t smooth and white like the cereal milk in magazine photos. Inedibly appetizing and thick with the slickness of a grippingly convincing imaginary.

I wonder if I’m even human sometimes.

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