you can’t call it a theater without breaking someone’s window

by jdavidcharles

Once again–a post I feel needs little introduction. My apartment got broken into. This is a metaphor for how people are. SURPRISE.

you can’t call it a theater without breaking someone’s window

A quick slash to the screen will show you how.

Is this okay? Are you sure—is this okay?

The sweetness of a tongue. A native tongue. Tongues of fire above their heads. Speaking in tongues.

They didn’t take much, how could they, the efficiency, the emergency of the act, of taking things on oneself. Of taking time for granted.

It was worse to stay, to see you like that, to do that to yourself, but what was I supposed to do? You didn’t give me a goddamn option. And later, when we pretended for our own sakes that everything was fine, like it didn’t even happen, everyone knew, I could tell, we weren’t fooling anyone.  Everyone knew.

Then the dust, fine, white ash all over my things. Don’t worry, they said, it washes off just fine.

And that’s something, isn’t it? Something of me, something of my interests.

When opening a new bank account out of fear of identity theft you are given back your old card but now corresponding to a different account. This means the old numbers signify new ones, which signify an exchange of electronic digits, which signify paper, which signify, in turn, yet other electronic digits.

Anyways, I have a new account but my card still has the old numbers. I believe we call this process, in the poetic trade, a metaphor.

I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how much you hurt. What I had done. I’m sorry.

Breaking and entering. Entering: breaking.

Are you sure—is this okay?

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