Unhinging Self-Love for the Third Time to Find I’ve Reassembled Everyone Again

By Bobby Parrott


I write down my feelings on a piece of paper and fold it up into a tiny square. Sometimes my body goes but I stay here. My car’s wheels know about the clock of my head, even though the pink trumpet flowers on the table don’t really follow the light. The squirrel fidgeting in my chest takes this part of the day and buries it deeper, until there’s no longer a little square, only a drop of moon thousands of heartbeats into the future. My persona’s creature faces order themselves so I can memorize, look away, then find they’ve throbbed into something other than insectoid avatars. So I modulate my hyper-quantum goggles, initialize a dreamier sequence of scented wonderment into lavender’s pale blizzard, and fall.

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