Nails enter Christ’s palms. Unforgiving lovers enter virgin bodies–at the Boulder Motel,
they were driving up the hill made of hundred year old bricks,
and a love letter, I pass a high school.
I haven’t written that poem yet I’ve been putting it off because I know it’ll poke holes in my skin and then they will bleed
the corset synches too tightly around my torso but you don’t notice.
I heard that we bring a part of where we’re from to every place we go,
The oaks have thinned since we last spoke, and I’m shedding the weight of you from my mind
Since the city is stifled it appears The hour thrust beyond the gloom at. . .
We went to the museum and I watched two kids pretending to sword fight by the medieval knights exhibit.
It was said of me, “the defendant will always pose a threat to society
Your mother is obsessed with mosaics.
White light, buzzing from the ceiling now finds itself humming in my head.
