Monday, May 4, 2015

port authority, in the summer, smells like blood.
in small quanities, blood is quiet as silk, tiny rivers, the drip of a faucet before the final turn-
port authority, however, smells like
a lot
of blood.
like a murder scene, like a car accident that sat in august heat for
too many hours.
heavy and sweet in torrents, i catch the whisper
of scent and freeze, look down and see
torrents of it, rushing from me like deltas spitting and
distorted time lapses of flowers growing or decomposing or seasons passing while
that smell, the hot heavy smell and me,
draining. i stand on the subway platform and blink six times until the red
half expecting to round a corner and see
a masscre, half expecting to round a corner and see
the inside of my childhood bedroom
panic, heavy blood, pooled and waiting,
to remind me of some war that i still occasionally need convincing i've won,
smell is most closely linked to memory,
i don't go to port authority anymore,
i look at my hands like sundials
and slow things,
i blink away the red, i shake the flashbacks from my head like a
wet dog,
my forearms like a distorted time lapse of
flowers growing and decomposing and growing
and growing
and growing

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