Girls in low tops from the same side of your city.
Sometimes the deadlines never end.
Sometimes you have the color grey on your porch. High pitched and squaking. Goose. Kitty. Babe.
Sometimes they smoke from the sides of their mouth.
And they speak of your neighborhood like panels in centers.
Last month I spoke to the pink haired lady.
About why, and for, and settle.
We are the opposite.
We are different hallways from the same exhibit.
Doesn't matter cause the gift shop killed. Like diarrhea in the snow.
Then we danced like it was the end because it always is.
And the gay man in the flannel shirt gives me rides.
I don't do well in groups.
But, on the rare occasion that I do my fingers go numb and my eyes turn to dust.
I have always been taunted by magic, my section; occult.
The smoke eddies up, and the blue under scores, the heroes, the class. Boy. Friend. Cheese.
I have to stop.
I only ever wanted a store front and a
Black out,
Skin & Toast
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