Mummies of such missingness blend with jackets of the earth. Bark of truth in dental floss tied to steps on videos. I hate despise disguise complaint, cannot bear to watch it roll. Too busy for mirrors, I bother with stand always searching out a rail. I'll hate pity's useless baby spit on fabric of my wedding day.
Truth is hang-nails crying out for silver clippers cleaned by rain.
Begging to be pulled or shot, but tugging at that inner blood. Fresh roses of a graceful walk matter more than they deserve. High heel dreams in cardboard boxes filling up a lame garage. I sneak in back-seats of a poem, masturbate the pain away. Distracted by direction's light, wanting life in lighter gray and pantyhose unsoiled by yet another fall.