Secure

The smell of piss lingers on my shirt sleeves. The last doses of powder seeping out. Measured. Observed. Contained. I look around. At the tattoo messages. Nestled in troubled flesh. All these careful years spent twisting myself up in knots. In nets. A cryptic implosion. Perhaps I could have spoken more softly upon myself. To say. To tell. Here. Here. The stories are neatly written in ink. Spaced out in time lines. On skin. In noises. In heads held in hands. In blood left on curtains. Curtains that don’t cover the window. In a place that never gets dark. But is so dark. There are houses. Outside the windows. I can see people inside. Eating. Sitting. Being. And I would like to have a minute back. A breath to locate who I was. Where I was. What I was. I would like to stretch and trace my fingers over the maps. The papers. Just to see. Just to have a little view. To find. To secure. My location securesecuresecure I am lost without my nets. I cannot anchor my feet on the dirty blue carpet. I cannot see my blue bag or the hundred little bags. All the bags are gone. Out of sight. Not in my hands. I sit. In a room where it will never be quiet. In a room where electricity is drowned by the sound of existence. An uneasy place of being. Perhaps there is nothing I can do but look. Today I can wash my shirt. At six pm. I will pull it from the water. Dry it and hold it. Smell the clean cotton on my skin. I will try another day.