i'm often awestruck when boys and girls promise to (more precisely allow) themselves to be undone for their lovers. their filthy filthy filthy vile lovers with fuming corrosive tongues with fluffy skin and cotton candy hair and chests puffed up as if they've never lost a war but it's just the nicotine fumes. and i can't stand it. they drown in their lovers' vomit and call it ambrosia. fucking idiots. their tongues are swollen by storing all that sugar which their lovers burn and caramelize to decorate the hearts they've stolen. god, they are unholy.
look at me. if i were to unspool myself for you, where'd i start from? my mouth is a fallen city and the teeth embedded so firmly inside my jaw have crushed so many dreams. the cavities resemble a gradual increase in my downfall. i need slate grey gravestones with a wonderful epitaphs to show that each one of my dreams did mean something. i use these metaphors as if i'm paramount. let me sing odes to myself.
there's just a minor issue. if i start undoing myself, i'll start disintegrating and i've been trying so hard not to do that. you'll kill me if i open up. why don't you traverse through my unruly hair and undo the mysteries yourself? i wish i had secrets so that they'd all add up to make me bigger than my body. radiate an aura.
and if i
break this crap down
into lines like this
i'm a free verse poet
and i don't even know
what i'm fighting for.
