Something I wrote for an experimental writing class back in 2010 that I think is kind of okay. I wrote it to compliment some drawings I exhibited the previous year.
How to disappear politely and never be found
My curtains are stealing all of the oxygen from my room. I know they are. I know
because they tell me so in a voice used ever only for secrets and truths. Breathe in.
Now (breathe in) Hear it? When they tell me they sound just like that,
like things being taken away, and plans being drawn up and sleep sleep sleep. My curtains don’t realise that this is not
okay. That when I wake and I’m alone and
I’m dark, dark blue and gasping and laughing, they don’t realise that this is
their fault and that this is not okay, that I have to meet somebody for lunch
tomorrow.
Sometimes it’s my hands, other
times it’s my feet: they’re evaporating; I’m slowly coming undone. I should tell you about how the roof is
heaving and heavier and sinking and nearly on top of me now and how the fire
just went out. It’s true. I should be talking in metaphors: my dusty
heart quickens. I should tell you how I
tried to trace me onto the wall but I blinked instead. Now it’s my hands, it’s my legs. And it’s not that hard: my last
mouthful of air.
