Waiting Room

by | Jan 13, 2023 | Ben Day One

Art so passively pastel, it was a complementary depression just to sit down and stare at the walls. Couches, tables, chairs, a magazine rack, and one rabid human gnarling nips of hostility at the shaky edges of my periphery. His street wrapped around my throat, my tongue.

I reached inside his enmeshed brain of paranoia and lobotomized that fisted gray. Tired of all the bad-vibing blunt egos unchaining their piss-sharp layers of poison and pomp; a shower of shrugs and scars. Why had I stopped breathing?

His words dripped out assaults: ‘bitch’ ‘skin and shuck’ ‘you leaking pretty.’ ‘some kind of lonely batter.’

I slammed the sky around him. Ripped the tattoos off his sweaty neck. He fumbled with language; dropped his head in his hands. It’s was a standoff of shrapnel. We were two blooming abstracts.

One coffee table between us.

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