I’m driving to a doorbell with a lust ring. Shopping’s giving head: aisles are labeled ask; specials dim upon exclamation. Self-checkout isn’t about lips; you’ve poured chicken before. I say to my selves it’s okay to not wake up, you’re tired of yours & yours & yours.
If this is screaming, I’m a semblance of recovery & will what remember? You aren’t in this poem. This poem isn’t a poem. This poem is a piece. This piece isn’t a lie. This where is unbridled, requited under-over skin. This is quiet dying how I remember me.
My blood isn’t blood anymore. Folding laundry reminds me to marathon I Love Lucy. If we fuck skinny we’ll hurt each other. I’m warmer when I’m only wearing chest hair.
Automatic Doors To Fruit With A Gust
I’m thinner than fast with a once-choice mind. On call is Indians & couches, addresses to split in sleep, China-filled glasses. You’re strong lead; I percolate in ambivalence. Two ones is this stripper. I will get happier tonight.