yes, i have not removed an inch of makeup, these past three days. i can still taste beers and united kingdom’s colloquialisms on my burdened tongue. and i have holes in stockings and black-and-blues brushing my collarbone. weekends, two and a half days, winding among unbolted doors that lead to what you want but can’t admit sober. yes, i still feel every inch when i saunter through flaxen leaves. how did i never notice such colors before? let the world be your oyster, except i’m vegetarian. so let it be my sea. ocean. every drop that i never tasted. fingers taste much better when they’re being shoved beneath your front teeth. five in the morning is the perfect time for screaming at lies you cannot see through. for falling onto beds that cannot hold more than one person but you trytrytry anyway. yes, i do not know where i am going anymore, but this tingling in my toes must mean something.