Inspiration is hard to come by. Everything sounds like love or sorry; there is no fiction — no in between.
I wanted my hands to be better, but they still can’t withstand fire. The skin cracks and peels — the veins dry up — the muscles die. I can’t even hold a pen anymore. I tell no one there is relief in this. That I can finally stop cramming adjectives in my mouth; that I can stop rearranging and erasing. (Never good enough. Never right.)
I dream of crashing airplanes — a well dressed man — rats. For once it doesn’t have to mean anything. There are no poems. No stories. I tell myself not to eat so soon before bed. Fluff the pillow. Go back to sleep.
Maybe I am getting older.
Maybe I am fading away.