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.

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