two-oh-six, redredred

There are numbers I pick. I pick them out of the big angry morning sky, like ripe pink cherries on the horizon. They indicate. How many stairs will I fall down before I am paralyzed? How many books will I flip through until I reach enlightenment? How many. How many days? How much time do we have left until we have all our time left? I wait, you wait- stick me in a crate, use yourself as bait.

I was sitting in the kitchen and staring at the counter. Flick on, flick off. Light, dark. I thought to myself that if I were to rip this entire counter off the wall and take it outside beneath the stripping sun, I'd witness every imperfection dancing for me. I think I would applaud.

There was a knife. White handle, coconut innards- he hates those. It can cut well, can tongues be cut well? Raspberry jam, seedy and viscous sticks to the ridges of my mouth. I lift the sharp edge from the spongy muscle between my lips, I am careful as a child opening the forbidden cookie jar before dinnertime. I am nicked. It hurts and I wonder why I did that. Red is a delicious color. I taste of metallic red licorice.

There was a number. two-oh-six. 206. twohundredandsix.
This is the Daze Period. I drag my feet and gaze and the happy mistakes, they are such pesky show-offs. I trip and fall and bleed and crawl. Crawl towards that line, leaving a trail of fruit punch slurpie from my palms and knees. But I see it. I see you. I'm dripping, but I see you.

Your tongue will clean my wounds, your body will be my band aid, your lips- paradise salvation.

I'm moving quick. I'll be there soon. I know you can't always see me but if you squint real hard you'll see the slurpie trail, and a swarm of ants, and my bobbing head.

It's all on the horizon. I swear.