liking beauty

Patterns of a Troubled Mind

Count the little holes in the acoustic tiles until the ceiling fades away. Step on a crack and break your mother’s back. Wash your hands until the skin is angry and raw and scrub your arms while you’re at it.

Count your steps to the front door and back to your room where you’ll open the window to blow the smoke outside and your mother won’t know because she buys you the Nag Champa incense that she still thinks you like so much.

Maybe you do. You can’t remember really liking anything. Count the orange Tic-Tacs while you place them in lines. Two four, two four, two four.

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