text: Listen, he is on the floor bleeding. You are in the corner. You focus on where his pantleg meets his shoes. You do not know what to do, so you just focus on where his pantleg meets his shoes. You don't even know what color his pants are. It doesn't matter. It is stained with blood. It'll create a new color, something of copper. You'll focus on that instead. When you are ready, of course. But you never are. But when you are ready, of course. It is warm room, you think. You only think about it, though. He is still, the man. He is not a father, not a husband, not a brother. He is just he. This is good, this means he was no one to go home to, no one to gossip with about all your nasty disasters. They are disasters. Big grey-colored tornadoes and all. It would be quite stupid of you to think otherwise. You'd be a fool, not that you aren't already one. You were a bigger fool the minute you tried to convince yourself that he is just a he. He is just a he. He is still on the floor bleeding. He is still. The stillness that embodies Mr. He is a delicate thing: a lonely child awaiting a cruel punchline. Silence sweeps around you, around this room. You hold the silence between your teeth and breathe. You mimic him. It is easier to let him breathe for you. Your lungs are too heavy at the moment, crushed by your corner. But the corner is you. If you want, the corner can be him too. Before you is this man, copper-heavy. He has constructed the walls of your beginnings, stumbled into the halls of your decay, as one does. Somehow, this man veins are pulled open, this man has put himself in the middle of this room and someone you are the one that is embarrassed. You are the one the people like to gawk at. They are right to. You would be a fool, a bigger fool than you already are if you weren't embarrassed. But God, you are pathetic when you are. You are this worthless paradox that can't get anything right. This is who you are and no one can convince you otherwise. Not even he. You think about fickle tremors, you only think about it. It doesn't do you any good. Nothing does you any good. It's what makes you fit in corners. You are only fit in corners. This corner is not your first. You think about all those parties and how, somehow, in your foolish little brain. Your selfish decay made you think that in a room full people, all would linger on you. They would go home and laugh at you in the way they laugh at god. You are selfish and you cannot comprehend how one can make everything about themselves in the way you do. But it is about all about you. Everyone always looks at you in silent ridicule, that is just who you are. But still, you are so self-reeking. You do not focus on those parties, that is not a comfort. The focusing is. It is what helps you. It doesn't help him. His spine is cracked open and it is why you get chills when your nervous. You focus on the worthless things to pretend all the big scary things aren't there. But everything is a big scary thing to you, especially parties. Parties and pity, concerts where somehow, again, though Freddie Mercury could be on stage back from the dead, you'd still have all the people looking at you for your failures. So would Freddie. All of the good stuff. The fact they are oh-so big and scary to you is what makes you oh-so pathetic. It is what makes you convulse with kindness, nerved-politeness. So maybe, just maybe, nobody will gossip about your nasty tornadoes. Sometimes at night you leave the lights on and walk across the flat fields. When you look back from a distance, you house is like a boat on the sea. It's really the only time you feel safe. That and where the man's pantleg meets his shoes. You focus on the little things and then you realize that the man is not bleeding. This man does not think, he does not focus. He is not as pathetic as you, no one. No one is and he is standing. Now, he could've been standing for quite sometime. But you were too busy focusing, as you always are. This is why you fit in corners, you cannot function, not even compared to the man standing. He stands and stares at you and this is what makes you feel like your thoughts about you are correct, as if you aren't the only thing to stare at in this room. He sighs, he stares, he is tired. 'You aren't what you think you are.' And there was his cruel punchline. What is supposed to be a comfort? A praise? You don't know and it doesn't matter. No one can convince you other. What he says makes you feel worse and you will think too hard about it. He knows you will. He sighs. So listen, he is on the floor standing. You are in the corner. And with that, leaves. The sound of the door closing echos in your lungs, you have to breathe on your own now. So you sigh. You sigh and you are tired. This is the loop. You focus on how warm the room is.