Bedtime for Bedbugs.

She goes home to a place where the walls don’t remember her. If they could talk they wouldn’t. They’ve got no stories to tell. Sipping water out of wine glasses in the wee hours of the morning to avoid the rising sun. She wants to read words. To breathe them, devour them, to chase them with a shot of who cares anymore. She wants her words to burn on the way down. Not bible thin pages but your Rosetta stone. To understand. The mingling fortune cookie wisdom and postmodern reconstruction gasp for breath in her globally warmed mind. Sometimes we talk about religion. Sometimes we’re soggy like newspaper caught in the rain.