remember that thing i meant to write. that thing. about how you always keep me running. and how my mind, lately, drives my insides far too far too sane. and i can't even sleep nights. with all this thing that refuses to get cut out with blunt objects or razor blades. or threats of long-standing infection. and when i was done. boy. with that sharp pen. the scissors cut. the burnt ends dangling. of all the ways you make me feel. this is what was left.



hot tempra paint