Pressure puckers & a migraine blooms parachute leaves looming from my mind, moonscapes of bare rock. I've been waking up in a tomb again, mouth mummified & crusted over with drool as my body jolts up at 6 6:45 finally 7: I rise from the dead once more. Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me, feet creaking old floorboards in a house with no internet. "Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, While slowly he whose hand held hers replied: 'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'" I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza & lost a piece of my soul down the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom. I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough. I cough up brown mucus & I'm glad I quit smoking. One of my ribs pokes out & picks my lunch for me, pointing rudely, leaving blood on the gleaming glass. People around me discuss the value of places they've never lived & a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open. I drink an infinite iced tea that refills itself whenever I get thirsty & a prehistoric potted plant belches dinosaurs back into existence. I clean my teeth to become the princess of the salad greens, eating olives with the tips of my fingers the way monsters eat eyeballs in the nightmares of children. Everyone shakes, terrified to look at each other mouths bleeding confetti & glitter. A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup. I want to write love letters to the boy who broke my heart & still has all the shards. I found out yesterday that I'm a woman of hard angles, that my moon might always be fighting to whole its halves. My calves are sore & I'm glad I quit smoking. I'm afraid of empty bird cages & waking up without a tongue. My lungs do a dance under my rib cage & shake my skeleton out of my body. Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays. Any available body will do. Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike than when I try to jump head first into the nightlife. Nothing can be proven true but I think my respiratory system is at least not false. If I believe hard enough, I can feel my pulse.