patrickpants

now it’s your turn to hide
consideration for some pining
inner walls and wayward sighs
how is the sliding from?

it was way back when.
it was way back, then.

I’m not helping, am I?
I’m sorry, but…
a balloon was all I had to give.
and now it’s out there, flying

in the
emptiness.

won’t you chase after it?

the other is forgotten.
the first is loved.
each has a taste of solitude.

“what a tough decision.”

the story begins:
calamity ripples the distance.
the other captivates an innocence.
the first rushes off; the first can’t be troubled.

a trip greets the first—the other is caught in serendipity.
one caught the other off-guard, but neither were aware.
they used to be friends.
they let the distance go.

“what a rough solution.”

for now, this bears a cracked quiet.

there are three white boxes in a white room:
the first box is smooth.
the second is rough.
the third is texture.
a wall.

the smooth box will die.
she grips the hammer; corners break.
striking harder, hard, harder.
an eyelash falls. and another.
she doesn’t care—she can’t.
she has to do what she’s told.

silence:
with naked eyelids; the box shatters.

the rough box distant, she longs to blink.
she rips toward the rough exterior, jaws gnawing the ground.

eat, eat, eat.

the bone of her mouth tearing that box, the texture grinds her teeth.
she won’t forget.
she will forget, but she won’t.

the box can’t.

her lips are furious, her gums seed the malice.
she can’t control herself.
biting, tearing.
forget.
she can’t control herself.

feed, feed, feed.

the rough box weeps, and in an instant, dies.
the final box waits.
so she scrapes over to it.

defiance.

she grabs the textured faces and peels her fingers.
her body upsets.
in haphazard motions,
dizzily repeating herself:

“the red room invitation.”

her right iris rips.
her left iris [tears.]

adjust.
she covers her face.
adjust.
she breathes.
silence.
she’s gone.

people keep
coming in to
buy Reese’s.
from all over
the world!