NOTAGAINAAAA.

indoors,i'm paling bonfires and verbing the nouns and
death is a metaphor.the room sighs with the afternoon
grief,the morning grief, the early summer grief saddling
nightfall. the grains in your coffeejar are a thousand
condensed nightmares imitating mine.the room sighs as

love is just a metaphor.in photographs,the eyes grow closer ,
but lighter with the loss of regard.your hands probing through
my ribs find filthy similes eating at a faint throb.the throb,
the paling bonfire, the room with no doormats, no sky,
just blood and disease- affect lunging into attempts to
hide.inside,warming up for spite, expecting
crisis in the hub,i lay out trump defenses- failing, failing,

falling.

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SOMETHING after ages, and this bloody awful. i wanna shoot me.
butdoods. ive been outa touch for ages. no no shootmeanyway.