The Chronicle

A blind-eyed wind-up bird sitting on my desk. It's Maine and someone is outside waiting for me. Purposefully. As far as I can tell. I can still walk. I can still eat. No IV's are needed here. I sit in the tree outside the lab eating two men at once. And they are both watered down. Spitefully. With two huge horned wind-up eyes that never leave but never watch when I don't touch them. I can join you. If you love me then hurt me. I can join you and I can walk with you, toe over toe. There's never been a brighter day than this. I have you, pinned down against the desk. You like the smell of wood. If I cannot have him then I must have you. Stay still. Do not even move. Take that toy, that thing, that blind wind-up bird and toss it on the floor. It does not even resemble you. If I love you then I have to hurt you; and I'm sure you understand. I can walk. I can join you. You can give me your sharp eyes and I can strap them on and walk, foot by foot. You resemble me. You join me. You hurt me. If you love me, love me, love me.