Put them around mine.

Full of fake happiness.
Tea.
Forced poems.
& eyeshadow.
All as the cars go by.
Of the style.
And demise.
Written weary for the try.
Pretty bi.
Because of course.

Garrett Johnson.

No reason until.

Reassured and measured.
You take off your buttoned shirt.
Smothered in dead dye.
Left confined, smiling, once.
A murmur.
No place.
Left wanted.
All streaming in haunting.
Let go.
As the back of candles remember, the brain that coursed in
The drip.
The flow.
The pit.
In the stomach.
Just, still.


Garrett Johnson