I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose.

ration the rest of the smoke, / spend hours tracing maps / to find the pub marquee 

You are new ink that will not dry.

But there, hand gripping faucet / It spoke in a language held only in the body

Why am I being so transactional?
Why am I being so weak?     
Why am I talking to strange men online?

I keep my teeth sharp / cus plush is still abundant // it’s a good reason to keep going, / biting the seam off jackets // biting the states off one by one

I am motion-sick with / a divination-death glimpse / of a carnival Earth

Fearless, sweet boy, / your courage is not lost. / I am uncontainable / ​​​​by nature too. 

good afternoon, passengers. this is your captain speaking. first of all, i would like to welcome everyone to my midlife crisis.

The knife turns, but blood in your teeth isn't poetic, even when I almost enjoy it

He’s dreaming. I can touch him softly when he sleeps. I can watch his body heave and rest. We need this. 

Vicodin is why I was smiling

Have the dream where everything is perfect; then wake up.

I felt the snap. A fool outrunning the weather, only to find out I was still too much.

Masterpiece

I see the world askew.

There’s a storm inside

my window,

inside my gemstone eyes.

There’s an army

in my fist,

fighting all my friends.

So, bring me splattered

I tried to see another way / and you shimmered / glitch-like / like a god. 

Her love can grow 18 feet in a year / roots deeper than a well / Her appetite can leave you hollow / pulling away, yet drawing near

déjà vu; the present doing / an impression of the past; / an inversion of echoes; / resonance as viewed through / bed posts; a forest of legs / under a row of tables.

These days the dead feel / more alive than the living

I’m sorry my body keeps becoming a metaphor. / I’m sorry I kissed every sign looking for the thing it signified. / I’m sorry I wanted proof.

i don't own a time machine / so here i am gargling syrup / at waffle house at 2:13 a.m.

hella errands before dark / hella bros still on the clock

Blue auras transmitted in a backroom, patched / by metal through our fingertips. The reality of my / posture in Polaroid, bloated figure at home in some / crowning, dispiriting frieze.

In a house, lungs are the window. Organs, vases on shelves in rooms. Visitors are light.

they’re starting to appeal to women
who had written them off as lunatics.