there is this anomie. it is a nightmare. it is a day going by without contribution. a going internal until darkness is the only known. a shadow’s home- blackout curtains and no reception. static breath. cold stairs. frozen toes. creeping past empty love notes thinking ‘what a gift it is to give.’

…he said ‘it’s a shame’ as we bundled you up and tossed away the goods, just to wait for them to wash up on a later date; soaked, decayed, digested.

how close is enough? just enough to feel chosen, then take it back… like a cruel joke.

life wouldn’t be worth it if i wasn’t black.