a muse?


like the zng zng zng zng sound that synthetic lovers make as they drip with the byzantine spoils of conquered thresholds

and i hear it, see it

but sounds and sights do not call me to battle like does the touch to my warmth and i have never fought for country or state like i have for myself


my brain is made of plastic- 

non porous and non conforming yet time and again melted like a surrealist painting, oozing through and out and every which way just to be dried again by under stimulation

a post lysergic reaction like air to resin

hardening uninhibited to preserve what notions might have been left behind in a snail’s trail

a brain, or just weird flesh yearning for a chemistry book and a lesson in shape shifting?

you used to be hot

“you used to be hot”

you said to me in the car as we were leaving the space where we had just merged lives, possessions, energies

your words hit my brain like a hot knife, a lobotomy on my self respect

replace confidence with submission, replace love with Stepford obedience 

i precariously stacked my feelings away in defense. “he’s just stressed” followed by “he’s tired” followed by “he’s right” 

losing my autonomy to eggshells that I crept on as I headed for Switzerland replaying in my head the words

“you used to be hot”