i took the wheel all the way to the dark.

i am shamed again or uncontrolled or sad—this fucking sharpness all the way through. i could not write because i was happy, and now it is rat poison, ugly bones. i have been alone for two years, and that always unfurls and—(the sound of———)

HANDS ARE HUNG AROUND MY SPEECH PATTERNS. I PULL AT MY THROAT, CATERPILLARS FROM THE BRANCH. MY BLOOD STUTTERS. I CAN NOT SEE YOU WITH THESE WORDS.

stop. fight. stand. halt. (redeem.)

breathe. gnash.

1. no matter i collect in this jar.
2. there is no way out of strangeness.
3. everyone around me is falling in love.
4. i am shy.
5. tomorrow i will fight harder. i will go alone.
6. but you're so pretty tonight.
7. i made you a mix tape.
8. the colours are not translating! right now, this—here!

the light bulb is vicious, this tic is pulling at my jaw, wide eyes and looking all the way down. and my forearms are heavy and i snap them against jam, against clocks. and i have said the birds break their necks and i think that every word ever spoken cannot be spoken again and i am losing this language to reptile blood and eyelid circuits.

i am trying to speak. i am gripped.

9.41. PM. WHY DO THE SHAPES HURT? IT'S—IT'S—IT'S—i am breathing and my eyes are closed. the sounds are all coming to life and the colours hurt.

AND I CAN NOT PUT UP A WALL.

(You are beautiful. You spasm in a little smile. Your blushed nose, teetering frame. You craft from paper things. You hear only the song that wants you here.)