under the skin all i am is blood and thought
forming into a lesser sum of the whole
fitted between floorboards and motel rooms
between clumsy words and continental souls
this is a tired, drippy saying my mother would repeat from the tongue, like a song but not like a poem, just a saying
"love this strong has to be domesticated"
and i wish i didn't exist outside of my head; i only wish to be a vacancy of thought
and i've bruises on the insides of my palms from it; easily hidden and slowly mended