Glazed Whites Engulfing Red Lines (The Taste Of Antacids)

from by Andrew Winzenburg

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The whole world is spinning, moving slow. Why did I put myself here? I don't know. I need to find some place to hide. O please, don't look at my eyes. They're flying saucers, green and blue, jealous and apathetic, too. They tell stories about the freezing cold, the vomit, and the stench of growing mold. Why is it that you keep coming back? Discipline keeps slipping through the cracks. I need to get away from this place. O please, don't look at my face. It's filled with pin-prick stubble, unideal, doesn't quite show how I feel. Perpetually frowning, mostly unclean, it misrepresents the idea of me. Holding on to what you used to feel, sometimes it's hard to tell what is truly real. The truth is I don't know. Someday, you're going to have to let go of all the souls blown out in clouds of smoke, the memories that used to make you choke, the lost locations you will miss, and the foreign things that fuel your pseudo-bliss. What's this window doing here? All things in view, they seem to disappear. I've never seen that window before. O why is my bed floating off the floor? I see nothing but my feelings, they're blooming from the ceiling, and my world is only static noise devoid of sadness, angers, fears, and joys. A face is only just a face, a group of seemingly misplaced sensory organs. Strange to see how similar you are to me, and on your head a strange growth of thin and tangled strings and rope of different color, different hue. How similar I am to you. I'm looking at my tums again, they never seem to work when they're up against what I've pitted them with. I guess everything's not a myth. How strange that you all seem so nice when you're clearly sculpted out of ice. I guess it's never quite easy to tell what is true when the truth isn't any more.

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Andrew Winzenburg Mankato, Minnesota

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