She says "he's still in the jungle"
He owes her five hundred still for all the little ones.
There's an owl in a gold frame just staring at me.
And this golden poison is deep in my veins now.
My face,
slimming
puckering.
What have I done?
Who have I become?
Sat up against a brick wall.
On the back of a napkin the words bleed.
I feel queazy.
Will I bleed too?
Like pink and red roses.
She says
"I already have some"
But I have nothing and no one.
I am light.
Air.
But thick as bone.
As wood, creaking.
I can feel him.
I can feel everything.
I'm sinking.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
She says "he's still in the jungle"
He owes her five hundred still for all the little ones.
There's an owl in a gold frame just staring at me.
And this golden poison is deep in my veins now.
My face,
slimming
puckering.
What have I done?
Who have I become?
Sat up against a brick wall.
On the back of a napkin the words bleed.
I feel queazy.
Will I bleed too?
Like pink and red roses.
She says
"I already have some"
But I have nothing and no one.
I am light.
Air.
But thick as bone.
As wood, creaking.
I can feel him.
I can feel everything.
I'm sinking.
