time to go
there is ice in my bones, there is frost lining the insides of my lungs like maps, road signs telling the air where to go (up and out, up and out). the babies are asleep and i am not home, they're curled up in the cavities of warm, open hearts reading bedtime stories in their dreams: stories about lions, fluorescent fish, tequila sunrise, techno lights, orange streamers, life-altering sex. so maybe they aren't babies anymore, dreaming innocently. maybe they aren't
i don't know where i was going with this. my heart has been left out of all matters from here on out; it was evicted by my brain. how can i write when i don't feel anything aside from the insistently pulsating urge to leave, go anywhere, follow my feet? what words are left while i'm still cemented to this place?