Gatecrashed
There are bodies of words all over the place. As I slept — or tried to sleep — last night, they obviously invited themselves round for a party at my considerable expense. They are now sleeping in drawers, in corners of cupboards, behind furniture, splayed lewdly over every available surface. They are breathing loudly, mumbling in their dreams as the inebriation wears off. I wouldn’t mind — I can be a welcoming host to the right guests, after all — but when I called for them in the virtual and all too real ether over the past few days, searching for the correct phrases and the poetic allusions that never seem to form in a just so state, did they answer? No, they remained resolutely silent. Clearly, they were merely plotting their arrival on my doorstep, filled with dubious intentions of sucking my hospitality dry until their gluttony and desire were sated, satisfied and overwhelmed. And then to throw up over the carpet and lie face down in a pool of their own vomit.
I want to evict them. Forever. No more words. I want to hide inside the soft, the warm, the real. Counting my fingers back and forth from dusk to daybreak. Checking myself out into my own peculiar version of reality.