one handed bandit

stumbling around on my old computer at home and found this. the only picture not cleaned out by my mom and i. i have no idea of the story behind it, when it was created, or by who.


i want more fonts.

life is a circus and so we are small.

Timing is everything in this fight.

thickening in around me, blanketing me.

The weakness.

see nothing has changed.
Istill rocking back and forth with sodden eyes.
everything is exactly.
The.
Same.

And I break.

I break again and again and again.

hurl

to opposite corners of the room.

one by one, they come back. Creeping. Slithering.




respective places.

stick to me

loose count

All my control. I squeeze myself together,

stay connected.

pick up to hang up.

Faulty machine.
The messages build and build, accumulating.

One thick ball of force.

I tuck them away, file them deep.
I try to put them to bed,
so I can get back to the world,

get some sleep at night.

But they won’t lay down.
I try to put them to bed,
and I’ nothing but sweet to them;








like a mother,










I give them a story.
Read it start to finish,
beginning to end.
We say our prayers,
I tuck them in.
give them a lullaby.
Kiss them goodnight.
But they refuse to rest.

So I won’t either.

I’ll stay awake, in this world.

Forever feeling their pulse, mixing to mine. I’m tainted, cursed. Forever tied.