Elaine George

By Laura Farrell

I had a dream the other night
about fruit as a representation for love,
so i put a bowl of fruit out on my bedside table-
my favorite berries,
watched them shrivel up as the week went by,
time didn’t make sense, it never has
but the fruit was dry, attracting bugs, smelly,
not fruit like
more like trash
more like ick
flushed it down the toilet and washed my face,
scrub, scrub

dreams are dreams are dreams and
that is not truth
I sleepwalk at night, do things
is that truth
I can’t tell where i go
where time goes
and when i try to tell you how i feel,
get lost
maneuvering through a sensation i’m acquainted with but can still not articulate
I’ve been here before

but i return because lost is better than realization
Realization is a deep sadness

I had so many ideas for what was to be,
and now i’ve lost ideas,
i have become movement towards,
but the towards blurs, becomes nothing,
i eat cause i have to,
shower cause i smell,
throw the fruit away
because metaphor means nothing to me anymore.
it once did
but that was called mania
that was trauma,
isn’t life funny?
or something like that
something like that
more like some thing
that i never asked for

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