Daily Bread

I eat my bread on the floor. Below the window. I am taking no chances. There are no pauses in this sentence. No mumbles. I cannot out run the holocaust in my shoes. I walk quite comfortably on its thorns. I am back in these towers. These blocks. Places built around corners. Over pipes. Between ditches. Places where no one has to see you exist. It must be lucky. To live in a house where you can’t hear your neighbour scream. Here even the softest cry from next door penetrates your ears. The part inside. The human part. Wants to put a hand through the wall. Give it to them straight. No one is ever coming. No one will ever come. But you have to block it out. I have to block it out. One of the new ones stands. At the window. On the frame. I fucking love you honey. I pull up the glasses. Put down my head. In three hours he will adjust. It’s not the ones who dabble their toes in the sky that will jump. It’s the ones that strategise. Make it as every day as cornflakes. Until the right time. The right time. Casually stepping off the pavement. They don’t need a push. They don’t need noise to help them fall. I don’t need a push. I don’t need noise to help me fall. Funny how the phone still rings. No known number. I drag it out of my pocket. Little pieces of grey plastic crumble off the edges. I can’t explain why I still carry it. Maybe because I once was. I once was. The bread is rough on my tongue. My throat is sore from the coughing. My nose still bleeds. I don’t have much paper. I fill it with geometrical blood stains and a few words. When it can carry no more I add it to the tip outside. A thousand pieces of me must be piled up out there. I keep my floor tidy. I tidy up my floor. I am taking no chances. I am taking nothing at all.