abandoned poems
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
a folksome, gruesome opera of gauze and malcontent.
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
The collective failure of ethical standards
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies