Dinge

dust.

dry hands.

boxes.

boxes on the ground.

boxes on a pallet.

boxes on a conveyor belt.

boxes from a truck

in the shape of a box.

cardboard cuts my dry hands.

the blood becomes my moisturizer.

the boxes pile up.

the boxes crowd around.

applies pressure on my patience

but not on my wounds.

the blood spills.

the boxes pile high.

the dust gets compressed.

fills in every space.

fills the gaps between boxes.

fills the gaps between eyes and lids.

it burns to see.

to see these boxes pile over.

to see the blood fill the room.

swimming in my blood

i almost drowned

but the conveyor belt is my raft.

the pallets are vessels.

the boxes become pirates.

the dust keeps compressing

and we fight in the fog.

i wash my eyes out with blood.

not from this ocean

but from my everspilling hands

that keeps filling the room

thickening the fog

and drowning the pirates.

the ceiling gets closer.

death from above.

it takes no side.

the raft capsizes.

the pirates sink

and i'm holding my breath.

and as i bleed

my blood

my patience

my hope

the ceiling breaks

the roof collapses

and i breathe.

i lay on my back

as i flood this town.

not tears from my burning eyes.

not sweat from my dry skin.

i float away.