I feel like a lie.




All this fragile air breaks me. Is it not strange, that I should be broken more easily than fragile air? Is it not love--no, it is not love. It is such a just injustice that I cannot shake its inarguable judgment.

READ ME, why do you not TELL ME who I SHOULD BE, what stricken clause in your muddled skull does not let you--...................ah, God a key. A key.

I sleep with the rust of ire flaking into the cracks of my brain, like the drifting shifting agony of a grief observed. Tusk, but I have grown so tired tired. Every moment I spend with me is hate, a lonely hotel room of echoes jimmering around asking -do you hear me echo? Here is the bloody socket of my sweetness, can you taste me in blue shadow garages, thrusting shallowly into red evening with fingers in my eyes -do you hear me echo?

Only guitars with crimson strings--your songs are your own. Here is what I ate, and here is what I gave, and here is what I have when the crickets have impaled themselves upon their own white violins--why do you never speak speak? You do not speak speak, thus when I resent, there is only the spattering flicker of bored-out lights and nerveless mouths.




I feel like a lie.