I lick the skin peeling from my fingers. I imagine licking correctly, I rehearse it. I’m very thoughtful.
I pour a cup of warm milk on my navel.
She’s fortunate to get to know the people she’s about to hurt.
Sing a cheap ad to me, I could change my relationship with myself. I have this odd gift of noticing the hot beauty and ugliness of everyone I glance at. I can see someone’s overbearing nose, I can appreciate the veins in their hands, below their jawline. I can love the sickness, I can hate it. I see goblins and I see angels in white and plaid. I believe I’m not controlling this action, I believe I am not a literal being. I see her drawing lines and moving her glasses back into a more punctuate position.
We’re just
ripping the wings off an outcasted dove.