Dripping in warmth, she took it back
It does not matter, does it?
A warm, plaid flannel
from someone she sent away?
It is swallowed by the threads of her thoughts
and holds spools of nights thinking about her fabricated personality
was she cut out to be a seamstress?
She could never tell, but whats the use?
She's tangled anyways

ii.
You are in the living room at dusk
Haphazard towers of moving boxes rise around you
The furniture has been dismantled and
You divert your gaze to the underwhelming formation
Of cardboard and tape
As your mother screams and throws the cat across the room

In retrospect, it reminds you of an album cover
For some emo basement band
A collage of childhood in hues of brown
Or a glimpse of red flannel
Cardboard castles, a little boy
Holding a paper sword
Taken on a disposable camera in 2004
And reappropriated for it’s nostalgia in 2014

The boy you caught is not amongst your rescue party
You veil your disappointment poorly as you climb into the passenger seat
And it filters through the holes in the cloth like grey light
You blame the fatigue on your mother alone
Though it isn’t entirely her own

A good warm flannel
Makes me immensely more pleased
Than most people do

Dream of good impressions,
A false advocate of a positive outlook,
Predicting attitude will get you locked up,
In a prism of dishonourable desire.

The deal is,
Five assorted personalities,
Assault every aspect of yours,
Run you dry,
Then have the audacity,
To question your lack of faith.

And on that note,
You disappear,
Your personality dissipates,
And your motion merges with that of the sour voices,
That you thought were constructive.

My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
Smuggling collarbones
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
And cigarettes.
Ramen boils
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dark circles
Tell stories
Dreams can't remember.
But ******* at least I'm still writing.