from the these are my legs scrap heap
Like this is the end. Like this is where I’m stopping. Where healing is the average of poetry unless I believe in it struggle to be nice knife in the heart. Nice knife. I flop. Turning compatible eggs atop the mercy. Pause and wait. Throw him. Seek her. Lose him. The brash couple of pillow faces. Talk time. Hopeful excuses step back from the uninhabitable anxieties. Energy body separate from physical it said. Slim calm sexy it insisted. Gag. Throat empty a reflex to stack hopes upon spilling of histories. When I was younger I thought perhaps I would study history. Now I don’t believe in the past what happened. The calming lines. I don’t want them to be just okay. I don’t want them to fall from extraordinary heights, either. I want just okay to vibrate. There is an internal logic, that won’t correlate with the quantified plains. I can’t make them fit. Judgment. I won, won’t con sound consider. Hum tepid. Boring a hole in straight. I can’t help it glassy easy ready.
