-joey friloux
once again,
i'm falling on a table of broken glass
that i, myself, cracked.
Little shards cutting slices from the sky
welcoming me upon them.
barbed and hooked so i can't get away,
my struggle only digs them in deeper.
Everyone wants to be cut;
he, she, me.
I held out the longest.
I thought I was invulnerable,
uncuttable,
superman.
but i look at the slice taken out of my flesh,
and it appears i bleed just like they did.
he stopped his wound.
she's drowning in hers.
will i find my tourniquet,
before i bleed out?
if i could see myself in the blade's cloudy reflection,
would i grab hold of something, anything, to slow my fall?
do i descend down a dollar bill into artificial awareness:
for a good story?
for a good conversation?
for a good time?
for a good fuck?
and is any of it actually good?
is it even real?
or am i dreaming again?
nope.
can't dream,
when you can't sleep.