, , , , , , ,

The first time I ever ironed
anything, I was eleven and
fascinated with the sound of
steam, how it hushed away
even the most convincing
of creases. To iron the cortical
folds inside my skull–at times
I would give anything. The
seconds pass, kiss my ears and
leave them ringing. I spend my
days disinterested at desks where
to study means to memorize–I’ve
become so institutionalized. My
hands now so synchronized with the
hands of time, that if I spoke in
numeral phrases, then my breaths
too, would tick and tock.