on locusts and lettuces

In these days of locusts I am grateful I am not a lettuce. My tender tenticles carefully disguised beneath waxed coating and thorns.

I am yet to wash the memories from my sheets, but my underwear remain unstained. My heart only races when the caffine rushes. Pounding down tracks on high rotation remains the domain of my ipod and computer screen.

Still, in the mornings, when my eye is torn between the grace of leaves and grass, I find myself stuttering. My fidget is a minor tick that betrays the lurking surges of insanity. It is only on small occasions that I trace the scars and touch the memories beneath.