on steamy insides
Somaya Abdullah
 
 
these days we dream standing up our lungs fill up let down like gas stations or long hair we eat chocolate and drink milk before bed because counter-attacks seem to almost work we don’t get tired it’s more like a state of being like breathing we don’t do anything about but we’re thinking nearly all the time so that by now we don’t imagine anymore it’s more like dreaming standing up just a little bit of drama to keep our dicks hard and our hearts beating this isn’t childhood and we don’t see in color the spaces between buildings aren’t gasps of air and neither are their looking points atop flights of muted stairs so where do we breathe every little piece of me cries out sometimes for sleep and i don’t give it to myself these nights i don’t get dreams anymore and i don’t get company walking the streets unseen i get scared of the dark because i’m not sure what belongs to my mind and what was shaped by clay and particles of cells i’m not even sure it matters because every little thing is processed through this not-so-thick skin and even in the damp grips of night rain showers in our brains plant gardens that we don’t remember vines that cling to the steamy insides of our heads where there are enough storms to feed their roots but not enough–where is there ever enough air to                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      take a breath.
 
 
←     →