Eyelids, edit 2

[crow]

Edit 2 (Qdeathstar, cjchaffin, __danny, billy--, justcloudy)

Eyelids

And when they come for you, you will try not to blink.

Maybe you will begin to weep.

Count ten twice.

You could run into the field of corn.
You would hear the crisp snap of the leaves shattering upon your advance.
You would smell dust.
You would get tiny, itchy cuts.
You are rubbed raw by your secretion.
It feels still and uncomfortable, and
you are lonely and self-conscious because even though running into a corn field seems natural, and maybe even wholesome, it isn't a sidewalk, and the rattling sound is loud,
and what if there are corn snakes,
and what if they get you?
You could echo-locate the road fifty feet away, 
Maybe you are powerful that way.
You could whistle loudly.
You could whistle quietly.
You could be a soundless animal.

You could pretend to be mad in a public place.
You could stare at the thing you're worrying about.
You could masturbate in a gas station bathroom.
You could wash off with pink soap.
You could ask permission first and, after hearing no, cause distress by going in there anyway.

You could cry out in pain. You could do it whenever you decide it would help.

You could drink water in the shadow you have found for yourself.

You'll continue to not be on the roof of anything--your car, your house, a crayon rendering of your house.

You could ask irrelevant questions to the pretty girl until she ceases to be joyful. You could hate yourself, then.

You could carry yourself through Minyards, practice making eye contact, decide if it's important to hold an orange.

You could find someone to love.
You could stop phoning it in.
You could make yourself open to being wounded.

You'll continue not to have past lives, or important secrets, or the ability to wink charmingly.

You have this life, and shame, 
and you'll try not to blink when they come for you.

Eyelids



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edit 1. 

Eyelids

Eyelids

You try for what feels right.
But what feels good?

You could close your book and eyes.
Count ten twice.
The flashing lights might stop them--
Then, they might stop.

You could run into the field of corn.
You would hear the crisp snap of the leaves shattering upon your advance.
You would smell dust.
You would get tiny, itchy cuts.
You are rubbed raw by your secretion.
It feels still and uncomfortable, and
you would be self-conscious because even though running into a corn field seems natural, and maybe even wholesome, it isn't a sidewalk, and the rattling sound is loud,
and what if there are corn snakes,
and what if they get you?
You could stop mid-stride and echo-locate the road fifty feet away, 
like a bat sticker,
like a dolphin sticker--
maybe you are powerful that way.
You could stop mid-stride, and huff and pant, wondering why?.
And you could whistle quietly, just to see if anything close came closer.

You could leave the car.
You could ignore it.
You could stare at a red object intensely, worrying about it.
You could pretend to be mad in a public place.
You could act like normal.
You could yuck yuck in a gas station bathroom.
You could wash off with pink soap.
You could ask permission first and, after hearing no, cause distress by going into the bathroom for normal reasons.

You could cry out in pain. You could do it whenever you decide it would help.

Will you?

You'll continue to not be on the roof of anything--your car, your house, a crayon rendering of your house.

You could ask irrelevant questions to the pretty girl until she ceases to be joyful. You could hate yourself, then.
You could carry yourself through Minyards like anyone.

Will you?

You'll continue not to have past lives, or important secrets, or the ability to wink charmingly.
You are only human.
You have this life, and shame.

You will try not to blink as they come for you.

But you try for what feels good.
What feels right?


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Eyelids

Eyelids

You could run into the field of corn.
You would hear the crisp snap of the leaves shattering upon your advance.
You would smell dust.
You would get tiny, itchy cuts.
It would feel still and uncomfortable, and
you would be self-conscious because even though running into a corn field seems natural, and maybe even wholesome, it isn't done, and the rattling sound betrays you, 
and what if there are corn snakes?
You could stop mid-stride and echo-locate the road fifty feet away.
You could stop mid-stride, and huff an pant, wondering at yourself for this queer election.
And you could whistle for an hour, there, just to see if something interesting could occur.

You could pretend to be mad in a public place.
You could stare at a red object intensely, worrying about it.
You could masturbate in a gas station bathroom.
You could wash off with pink soap.
You could ask permission first and, after hearing no, cause distress by going into the bathroom for normal reasons.

You could cry out in pain. You could do it whenever you decide it would help.

You won't.

You'll continue to not be on the roof of anything--your car, your house, a crayon rendering of your house.

You could ask irrelevant questions to the pretty girl until she ceases to be joyful. You could hate yourself, then.
You could carry yourself through Minyards as if in no past life were you ever once a slave.

You won't. 

You'll continue not to have past lives, or important secrets, or the ability to wink charmingly.
You'll have this life, and shame, 
and you'll try not to blink when they come for you.