the collection of lies you tell yourself lies scattered on the floor.
Limpid as a lamb, I am,
utterly infused with gooey gratitude.
When it seeps in it seeps in everywhere,
calls me out at every turn along the way.
But, hello!
I do not know what it is I aim for in any telling,
what's more is that I cannot quite quench
this need for attention, and did I mention?
Hunger is a thing caged in the belly, anxiety also.
It scratches roughly, so you cannot ignore it.
Twice upon a time it rattled loose,
but I've long since forgotten the path it took.
Maybe there aren't any secrets left.
I feel demystified in your eyes, retold again and again.
The aim is simply an untelling, an undoing.
I would die a thousand times just to be reborn.
Neuronal crackles stage war with my will. I search myself for pulses of
passion, only to find that the best of all intentions pale in
comparison to the agony of loss.
May monkeys wreak mayhem and hurl their shit at passers-by. May we
drench this time and hang it to dry. May I never be complete, yet
strive to bite the mouth that vomits on my shoes.
Loose are the screws. Obviously.