a streetlight wind—jagged—kind

I am starting now, at (THE BLACK SUN SPITS, ECHOES HOWL), because I am happy, and I don't bleed enough money, as I should, to feel adult, and okay. And I care about my mother to a point, that will never be healthy, for someone who is me and cannot bruise time, and I am going to shit myself for seeing a good friend, and throwing up/ourselves into the future. Which is (SOME KIND OF WAX AND BLOOD AND BEE STING), which reflects something (I remain). I have a name tag, with some skin, that says (I SEE YOUR HANDS WANT). I have never. I really like the futureIHATETHEFUTURE.

Everything—is—still—not—bruising——next to me—the warmest———the writer.

I am not good at telling. I was—now—clamming up, closing up, hearing gunshots pretending to be sound, that is just———any fear becomes: Gunshotted. Unbruising. Fearer. That time.

I am going to (I will) sleep, at (ROCK FACES). I am going to dream of golden not spiders crawling into my mouth or existing.

(these global tenses rob us.)