I’m spilling my thoughts here as if they don’t matter as if this is the art paper my children pile in boxes
Overflow. Overflowing. These rough sketches. One line. how lovely! Rip it out of the sketchbook!
Tell me do you fancy me to take each small thought and type it small?
Combinations of words and letters I spill my heart in
and wonder if they are nonsense
If you gut it all at once in a hurry with no regard for the blood on the metaphorical carpet you’ll find yourself quite light
I imagine. But this isn’t that. This is subterfuge and pretence. This is pretending and abstinence. This is honesty in fiction
(we all know all stories are true)
Now if only I had a me to begin with
I could embalm her properly
She is the sky.