deep within the black shirt are chamelion hands making mocks of string when they should've been digit deep in a bowling ball or around the handle of a sauce pan or on the arm of the couch... sometimes they'd be cupped amplifying yells around the mouth, sourcing the tooth obsession along with a slew of other medical problems, another bushel of ******* for the stew in the *** maybe her foreign claws could rub the knots out of your shoulders but she is suspected of dropping the world, and, as with many other things, would garner your reluctance to hold risk for, your red hot fear of hatred your red hot ******* hatred those shoulders hold your house your saxophone those shoulders hold your experience your lack thereof, your anxiety your ******* hatred your black shirt