Fractures

You wear your nihlism like false teeth, your eyes ringed in raven black.
Taped to the wall, a stolen letterhead is scratched out by your hand, the markings now thick lettered in cerulean sky blue - (the colour matches your eyes)
scrawled: The Institute for Acclaimed Madness.

"I told that bastard he didn't know feast from famine. He couldn't wrap his mind beyond the fractals.
But it's a fact -
Kafka ate cockroaches for breakfast.
I know - I know
I am him.
And it's like sour milk -
milk from the breast of the mother that can't nourish the child
but the child was never anyhow -
dead before conception"

You sit with a bowl of cornflakes cradled in a canary yellow bowl.
Absentmindedly grinding your teeth, you stare it down.
For a moment, you are light -
like a seagull riding the air
filled with the fresh breath of a salty sea blue expanse
poised to swoop in and snatch -
your pinched mouth is greedy for the hunger

"This shit tastes like wallpaper paste. I don't want it."

You push the bowl away. Milk slops over the rim along with some cereal.
Inked across your hands, you study the words "Bite me" -
look up at the wall and smile a thin wire.