I crawl in the oven and wait for an invitation.
I yell boo at everybody because I’m paranoid as a bat.
I bake like a holiday, involuntarily.
I cancel my chances like a padlock.
There are just two possible beliefs in the world: confetti or deadlines.
People adapt to losses I can’t even pronounce every day.
I imagine them in limbo, strong and diseased
(but only by my weak definition).
My eyes will vomit my insides forever.
I’ll only have sex anonymously, at the top of a totem pole.
So yes, I’m furious I’m shaving my head to show you everything,
how my genetics stink like an orphanage.
My insides will regurgitate themselves for a very, very long time.
I’ll read books about nothing I want.
Grow a beard to hide my anger and intolerance.
Name you in descending order until you float again.