the ceiling i now wear my eyes up
plastic black garbage bags and the rainbows fuse
wood-stock, bare beams and studs fixed with lines from dried
desiccate nails poked through

on
Milwaukee Avenue the miscarriages of newer child abuse shows through
characters worth keeping close are quieter than I'd choose, the mean grifters are so loud it's trying too hard to be obtuse. Anyone can be an ***
but my assholedom is strained from confusion and too much use. Underneath the mountains inside a record box, I only want to live where you're a fixture and a friend. My fingertips are bent, I can sew, I can write, I can breathe inside your mouth if you'll allow me too.