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The Opposite of Sex - pt. 2 (prose poem)

It seems every Tuesday afternoon breathes slowly, my feet wearily pace
the urban-painted, snow-covered sidewalks. Fragmented conversations
occur all around me. Unfinished lives that hang at the mercy of my foreign
mood, like scaffolding, used and reused: skeletons of ambitious tales. I move
forward while my head entertains my love muscles with a slideshow of things
gone. My legs are complacent. My unconscious is Grand Central Station. On
my shoulders, my backpack and all my in-development knowledge. Seeds to
my garden of tales. My life is divided in two. All my adjectives exist in two
bags and a few pockets. I learn how to shrink. My wardrobe responds to a
higher calling now. I'm torn. The mirror is the last person I see. It says
nothing. My shoulders carry dead trees and blue ink. The more days go by,
the more my eyes engrave weight. I pace the slippery ways of the other half
of my life. I change the trajectory. I am hungry. My thoughts are covered in
rain. Much Obliged! I can endure only so much pressure. My spine is curved.
My hands hold the prize. My tongue convulses like a fish out of breath. To be
eating instead of talking. Unsaid words give me stomachache. My life is part
time. I breathe heavily. To be mundane crushes my skin. The goal to be
human expands my lungs. Tuesdays are the longest days of the week. I divide
each Tuesday into half-Monday and half-Wednesday. I take more subways
on weekends. I spend my money hoping it'll grow back. I know it won't. I
make my choices based on what is the right thing to do. It hurts. Right is
usually painful. As is truth. I was born on a Monday. Tuesdays are the days
that follow my existence. Tuesdays are the longest.



2019-02-24 09:34:38



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