If the thoughts inside my shower made it out, someone would commit a crime.
So I double them down.
There must be a jumprope song about hating flesh. “Miss Susie had a bellyroll/she named it MiddleMe/she washed it up and under/then toked a bit of tea.” There: I just wrote it.
I can sell you birthday poems.
I can sell you crackerjack prizes I’ve saved. That’s a lie–I don’t save anything.
Days like this I call Black Market days. There’s a feeling that selling something would be the answer since commerce is the divine everything but all I have is a small filet and the devil is never behind you when you need the devil.
I am not so sure about consequences.
Lately, being legitimized doesn’t make it safe. No one is monitoring the goods. The marketplace is a marketplace of unmanned stalls. We cannot sell, we cannot sell, we cannot see.
How can I offer myself to johns without bodies?
I think I keep growing so that I might make it to the other side of these words.