prettylittle, 18
Now you see that I’m tired. Foregoing and urge tinged, altogether uneven. True feeling anterior, sitting on the old voice. Altogether disheveled. Blue without my primogenitor. Mauve, bad or good, it all coming across time, lineage, family tree. Sectional sofa, sounds the same. How I’d like to move to taller roots. Looking at the loneliness. The good way, anthropophagous, is muted and I probably will after I tried once, I say. Remembering with solemn description of the upstairs, talking to the night with him more (alas, I thought, a final time), annoyed at the human flesh (his). Soonafter I return to erasing his opening (such of the soft human beings), and cannot be heard over the hushed chicago. And from memory, he beats of recognizable song. The direct opposite of conversation and rhythmic tap, tap, tapping. Maybe I will leave with me.
