I spew all these words at you, releasing them from bonking around up in my noggin causing a ruckus.
The peeping tom has taken up running or biking whatever it is that requires two-piece spandex body suits and frequenting my coffee shop since I moved. — when I feel his eyes on me staring as I sit at my table, or staring as I enter from a walk; I would rather take an orangepeeler…
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My brain wakes up and cries for the death of its living baby. so used to hurling ourselves [booze] down the hatch, the still afterwake unscathed is surreal; like crying when happy, our system malfunctions.
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short-shorted piggy-bunned riding that baby blue bike through the grass fronts of small business and edges of town on a monday day. — no one knows you’re 27. pedophiles eye you, suspiciously, that you know how traffic functions.
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exertion charred lungs feel good after branding, though spin class is actual hell. endorphins, you are not booze or coffee, but you are okay [for now] — suddenly there is so much more to do. Not addiction constrained to certain locations everywhere is a place to be; my body, unhooked from IV free to explore.…
Read MoreI saw you and felt nothing. — if I was a tunnel, you used to be the train. whenever I’d hear you coming I’d brace myself for impending arrival. you’d roll through me; unstoppable force. i’d feel every inch of me shake and shudder as you ran through my bones. — but you left long…
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I was taught love was the wrong details of an oil painting. the image: a blanket wrapped around a stranger in a desert night, desperately trying to keep warm by a fire. I was taught the only way for anyone to love me was for them to light me ablaze stack of kindling…
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