Notebook 069

I barely open the blinds anymore. The stench of adverts hangs. Traffic is the ticking of time. I never grace the AM unless it's dark, drunken and desolate. The birds conversing are signal for sleep. I don't have an alarm, just a non-functional body clock stuck on snooze. I don't have intinerary or agenda. I haven't looked in the mirror for weeks. I haven't washed for more so. The fingers through my hair are my pillows and my matted back. My kisses are the layer of slime in the corner of my mouth when I wake. Raped by an acid tongue in my sleep. It takes exactly three and a half weeks to forget the sound of your own voice. This is why crazy men mutter and poke their own fingers; to remember sound and touch. Silence is the best listener. She never argues, judges or tells you what to do and she's always there when nobody else is.

It's been three years. I think. I'm at the setting up a joint account with my right hand. Was it good for you? He never answers. Never moans. Never sighs. He always does what I tell him. I hate him, but he loves me.