The Master Bedroom

he could never relax in the lounge

the wall of huge sliding glass doors made him feel like he could look up from his book at any time and see an individual in a black balaclava silently slipping their fingers into leather gloves
but most of all
it was his reflection in the patio doors
that left a dissonant bell ringing in his soul
it was always laughing at the same things as him
on the television
it unsettled him so much

he could never relax in the kitchen

the fridge freezer sounds anxious to be there
and there a is a ghost with it’s back turned on him
eternally angry to be locked there in death
with male pattern baldness
and is never able to drink the tea you made him
it always shouts at the same things as him
on the radio
it unsettled him so much

the master bedroom door is always closed

when he calls himself he feels that he is laughing he is never awake .

there is a separation between ourselves and our conclusion, we read

we read everywhere. he loved these little words and little violence and

of course the little death, but he was huge and nothing about him was

twinkish. he longed to be in a white room, with a room facing the east

and the wind would blow in and he would shave in the morning light

lofi playlist on, his houseplant green in the backdrop, his glasses thin

and then would he love himself. until then, he will love someone like him

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he had read a story in which a person had been
in a certain way, and afterwards, after an accident
or incident, had been changed. he had been another
way, he had been searching out others who were like
how he was. he had been looking for moments where
he was not looking, at himself, in a mirror, or window
reflection, where gloves being slipped on, would remind
him, of what followed. and what follows what followed

He longs to see and be seen and to relax and to be relaxed

To explore but yet to sleep in his own room, or the room of the other that he has not seen since

She locked the door in a moment of pain when he spoke words that could not be taken

Back to where he was in the moment.

She had locked the door and behind it was her and his stuff. All the things that he owned. He did not keep things in the lounge lest the balaclava men stole them.

She was a smoker and lit a match. She was a competitive eater and swallowed the key.

He took the centerpiece and went out into the street, the wind being fanciful today, so he buried the centerpiece in the closest grass pasture he could find (for even those are kind of hard to come by these days) and he said, fuck the woman. He has so much hate for her that it felt natural and pleasurable just to think about that hate, to materialize the hate, and to never let it fade to a sort of gray longing that separated people tend to feel. He walked back to the bedroom as if he committed a crime. He hasn’t come out since we last saw him.

She too has not come out. It was thought that she was in their with him. She was not with him. She was found a week after the week, after the week in which she went into the room and ate the key. He went into the room by window. She was found outside of the room with an open stomach on the porch and her legs in the backyard next to eh centerpiece.

He had fucked her. She had been fucked.
The hate had flowed through her. She had been separated.