Thursday, July 10, 2014

kissin' on magazines

In my dream, they made me write my confession, my purpose. Everyone just wanted to get it over with, to have it on paper and be done with it. They gave me a piece of paper and a pen. The ink was my blood and the paper soaked it all in so every word just became a blot of bright redness. My last sentence was about mothers and daughters and sisters and wives, but the wouldn't let me finish it. They stole the paper and ran off. I was left behind by myself with the house help and petals of discarded flowers. My tears made it so hard to see where I was walking, but I remember stumbling out on to the road, and there it was again. That rain, that wretched, wretched rain...