My stomach is filled with molten things, but I will be able to feel more love than you ever will. Inside my stomach and throat pipes the hate remains incompletely digested. Our bodies cannot digest our own blood.
There happens to be silt film foaming on top like the fate of a desecrated porcelain sink, a vessel that ceases to be drained. This vessel will always be able to feel more pain than you ever will. The depth of feeling is all that there can be.

People should stop thinking that they are so special.
People should ease out of the solipsism.
I have wine beside my bed. It is all saddening.

What was needed now had to be more important. These things tucked away behind the creases of the forehead. Wandering through the beer garden as it became night collecting glassware streaked with saliva and alcohol, soaking under the nail bed it was sticky. At times knuckle bones contort out of place, dragged by the weight of the things. Yet, slow considered steps proceed. Bedtime has come around, the house cat places his body upon your stomach cavity. There is a knowingness in the expelled oxygen which grazes the face. Something poised. This something never arrives.
At night dreams of mistaken food and drink orders trickle into the chiaroscuro room. They **** and disturb, not allowed to unhinge. Unable to delve deep enough, never touching the soft ground or the dream space. Always aware that the alarm clock would bookend this type of semi-rest.
The morning unravels itself. As if mornings were a ball of powder-blue threads teasing the screens of eyelids. Daring them to follow the traces, the bread crumb led spectacle.
Placing eyeliner upon the lashline at the wall mirror, there in the flecks of light stirred a flicker. Appearing less frosted for specks of breath. Spoke outloud, the first utterance of the day. What exactly has happened. Amongst the bones that set out the arena of her body, it seemed that there was no one there to be asked.

Plum-coloured patterns swirled under the skin of her left leg, knee and foot. For two or three moments while paying attention to the casing in which she existed, there was a kind of glimpse toward healing, and a separate simultaneous clawing toward animalistic combinations of hateful utterances.
A shiver felt its way out of her collarbone. Eyes a little more open than usual.
The eyes reflected the lining of grime that swells above a murky pond.

She has already cried by 10am that morning, a little before work. Breathing, smiling heavily and pausing through a phone call.
Shortly, it would be adequate, fine. His voice would no longer be honeycomb to her, but it would be fine.
In that day when they walked everywhere there was an echo, an antediluvian thrill, all that feeling perished at once. It must have been written into her fingertips, expected in the arched shapes. Releasing back into the trail of sped up time positioning the pad of paper, lipstick tube and gungy pen upright and proper in the pocket.

For a while there was an elastic band gripping her wrist.
Then it snapped.
The taught frantic energy became dusty residue, a shed snakes skin. Fragments of it lay in the crevices of her cupped palm. Parts of it seemed to wriggle, until they didn't ache any more.
Looking up, the room remained quiet. A bad song landed through the speakers. Time started back up again. The pieces had to be scraped into the apron.

There was a time when you and I had not seen ourselves in mirrors
Before we knew what we looked like
Before we knew how we feel at all
A time before I knew how my body would work
Most months rusty water drains
A packet of small white circular tablets coated in sugar is responsible for my happiness
I imagine my ****** is the colour of a faded flannel cloth
Red used to be my favourite colour
On many occasions My body has felt like a new years resolution.

Your sweat reminded me of rainbows in petrol
It tasted like the sea.