Posted by Franny on Apr 14 2013, in Uncategorized
all our calendars are overrun with ants. shoveling food as we duck through doors. the late-night trek home after racetrack conversations, a day-long stream of words burning a hole in our brains. nights staring into an endless hallway of tasks, the ghosts of to-do lists hollering from the blur. we are suns racing and crashing back into the sea. we all sow the next day’s crop, banking on each other to pull ourselves up in the morning. run and run and run and run and fall, a wounded gazelle in the place of our lungs. doped up on crisis, because nothing happens unless a meteor’s headed straight for the schoolyard, though we all know the constant rain of pebbles on all our heads. the hounds are always snapping at our heels, their chainsaw laughter breathing down our necks. so what to do but pump our legs until we climb into the sky, climb until our legs give out and we dive, eyes closed. juggle all of our planners until this ferris wheeling fills our bones with the thin soup of sick. until finally, we hide in forts made of newspapers and properly cooked dinners, wrap ourselves in peace, and cut the cord, swearing we’ll never meet another’s eyes again.