for when i get web-toed and i falter. there's a whole field of green eating
at my intestines like gulls. butterflies mutate, so this could be a poem for when i skulk around and hug walls, hoping to find the sacks of nothing on my back evaporating. for when i
dont see it because its gone.for when i still look for 'hello!'s on pink tiles that have been walked over a trillion times since they were touched.this is a pretend poem for the times when the sky spits and i'm yelling at strangers who tell me its ok. its ok to lose hair over a seven day old love.its ok to look at your toes as if they're dying stars, uncouth and unable to keep yourself from tripping.this is a pretend lullaby for my defenses.a pretend serenade for the days when the branches hanging low over the smoke make me phase out.for the times i unfold my lungs and throw them at the wounded feet of the centre. this is an excuse and a trick and it wont stop pretending to cut through your gut. today i'll be pretending like its going to make a difference to somebody's sleep that this is a pretend poem for the times i wish i could tell what i really want it to be about.