if i don't obey the rules, the conversations cracks, like a star with the tongue cut out. the light exists, the heart bears a socket, but these two things, they won't ever meet. they sprint like greygrounds, one to a bullet between, the other to a tyrant court, glorious spluttering throne of better eyes. though the spark returns to the gun, the catcher to the crown.

I am speaking (stop, Wait, I have to consult the notes that govern me...)
I am yelling (but, i am wrong, i must let it, i must let it...)
I am fucking writhing (you accurate mess.)