fresh phoenix

let's be honest, i never knew what i was doing to begin with. and now that i know sometimes, i'm suspicious, and i wonder if i really know, or if i just invent these fables and act out my own dramas. but how cynical, how completely jaded is that? no, i'm feeling, definitely, have to be, all this feeling, all these feelings, or why would I be holding a crisp piece of burnt pita bread, half-heartedly dipped in hummus, mouth agape and eyes exhausted, sagging with defeat, with acceptance of a great loss, an intense disconnection, red, swollen pouches of flesh surrounding my eyes, red, splintering veins pulsating monotonously, continuously and pupils very still, iris always ready to engulf the black, for the color to overtake the void, the light too intense, the truth too blinding, and the eyes squint, the mouth sags, the bottom lip quivers, terrified child, at the horrible sight of the eyes, the terrible, depraved weakness of their shock, the emptiness of the eyeballs' gaze, while the upper lip is anchored above, unable to fall completely under gravity's spell, to give in as eyelids do, and the bottom lip rises to cower below the upper, while the corners flee towards the feet, and the too toasted piece of pita bread has been in my hand and the hummus is still there and the commercials on the television never end. I left the pita bread in the oven too long because I was distracted. I was distracted by a call. I've just been distracted. I've just been distracting myself. I'm just creating these distractions.