Pale Toes

In moments of silence I hear moans of madmen I look down at my pale toes. Six a.m. gray morning static topped off by pale pastel skies. Blanketed by clouds too dense for a silver lining, the cold dead Earth has seen better days. Or so they say. I draw comfort from this funereal existence. Cool winds shake the screen outside my window it resonates, echoes in the skull in my head. Stiff leaves tumble across the grass dead. The house aches and groans I look down at my pale toes. A dismal haze seems to be cast over my consciousness I don’t trust the mirror. I don’t trust the mirror. I don’t trust the mirror I look down at my pale toes. Ten pale toes. Ten? Ten pale toes missing half of every nail. A trail of red dots from bedroom to bathroom to bedroom to bathroom too. Bed of nails beneath my ten pale toes every step must be felt must must be felt. I sell myself to wakeful sleeps with tarnished sheets and feathers beneath. I grind my teeth til six a.m. til six p.m. and then again. I look down at my pale toes.

 

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