I slither across the tightrope between
"people person" and Socratically suicidal.
Nobody has ever translated their transcriptions
But I,
Somehow am allowed to bleed them into ink,
page after page waiting
to dry myself up and ring myself out.
We are nothing but ***** washcloths,
each emotion a bead of soiled
aquatic excrement.
Will I ever accept myself as a
rag?