aiding poetics

Last night, I washed my face with my orange neutrogena face wash like I always do. Put a mandarin slice of soap in my palm, made the sink water do laps around the drain to warm up, and I polished and I polished and I polished the white suds all over my skin. And I splashed and I splashed and I splashed the warm water until it felt clean.
I reached for a towel to dot the drops from my eyes. A blue towel washed with a newer red towel and is now covered in red towel fluff and pills and apparently some sort of std because the moment I wiped my face, my skin began to burn like Batman just made me the joker.

I was sure I would wake up this morning with my first layer of skin missing, but the sky has cleared and all is clear and I’m not sure why I’m writing about this other than my avoidance of a poem that’s under my computer yelling at me silently, starting at me crossly to stop F*&CKING around and I’ll say I tried and nothing was coming, so I thought maybe if I did a warm up (and I’m sorry if you’re reading this you can stop. you can) that I might be able to go back to it with flowers and unicorns and speed and pure gold shit, man.
but I’m not writing about any of that stuff anyway. Maybe in a round about way, flowers, but that’s a bit of a stretch. And now I will admit that today I am stuck.

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