clutter

body foul in wet-leaf obstinance

screeching what do you want, elbows inverted
pupils wide as empty horizons, i
thunder inside a shell that whispers
down, down, down, taking it all back
all the fucking way, to seven-year-old guilt
making mud of the lawn and hoping
maybe this bicycle jump will kill me
maybe i will freeze to death and never
ever land in feather nightmares after all

1/16/24