Kaiden Blake

New free-write. This one's pretty personal, so I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I, I, I. You and them. Where is "us?" Where were we? Parasites to dismantle my abilities. Trapdoors without dead-ends, tunnels full of revelations revealing a chain of one way exits all with my name. Where were you? Where was I?

You, you, you. My mind. Your mind, but not ours despite the hours that have passed. Weeks, months, years, decades, centuries - what is time? Calendars are merely calculators for letters that seek redemption.

Just a little stir-crazy. Sanity was a test at birth, thought I'd circle in all the bubbles. No, I came out of the womb tongue-tied. Where was my voice? I'd receive it, but only as an allowance. Vocal chords sitting in the corner, time out. Too much time out. Time in, jab your fingers into the palm of your hand or your fist against my flesh. They're only bruises, though the current cruises. It's been a thousand miles and I'd like a check-up or to check-out. Nobody puts baby in the corner, though childhood corners I cut while I aging. "Only a number" was etched into my slumber until the days and nights had merged. Dark circles under my eyes to match the skies, and my, you were fond of fashion.

Yes, no. No, yes. You see? You don't see. See. See me. Me see, or I see - another rule to follow. Another slap across the face, what's left to deface? Age like wine while left to whine. It was only a number, even with 20 years of separation lending itself to desperation. I was merely an obstacle when you entered the course, oh intercourse, just another hurdle for you to climb and claim the prize. Tantalize. Contending for a contest without consent. I saw through hat full of paper slips, despite your slips. Slip-ups are inevitable when all entries are identical. I called a silent jury and clumsily dropped the case, inefficient to stop you from the chase. Denial summoned more memories to the trial, all the while time became senile.

Kitchen appliances aren't proper dwelling areas for body parts to lounge, though my brain's recipe was critical to your wiring. Tourniquets short-circuiting long after the power is out. Sparks invisible to inspectors like metaphors schemed by grand directors. A silent film with voices dubbed over, compliments to the audience. Disservice is service if only to add sound to a moving mouth. Violent verbalization.

Me, me, half. Two halves not fitting a whole; a hole. Architecture influenced by the demeanor of quicksand for a more naturalistic approach. Afloat, but only treading. Desirable dreading. Smile to please, please. Proper etiquette for mourning. Coping in the form of table manners. Every individual poised with impeccable symmetry while each is served a different meal. Eat up when you're full, hunger isn't forgiving while your insides tug and pull.

I, me, you, they, he, she, it. Not us.

Never us.