burial

this is just a mess. I hate that I am ruled by so many things, and wearing bad days like cloaks. but the spark of a song sets it away, and then it—staring at secrets, and counting my skin.

I don't feel bad for mess—simple structure—butterfly wings—chain wire—dog tears.

I have to always adapt to survive the twitch, what spurs hyphens. I eat this pizza, and count higher, play a song for safety.

this will be filed under mess, and that makes it okay. if i say it is to be ugly, then it can't be thought to be thought to be otherwise - the judgment that is learnt. skipping. skipping. skipping. -

and from here i control it all, could go every ways.

i am only one wrong foot in a puddle i didn't need—that far away from—closer, in that.

somedays the reels don't play. the picture is all dead insects, burning their fucking eyes out, writhing. crackling. will they love us in flames?

i would give you answers. i would always give you answers. every answer, if i could understand—the—empire.