i like myself in fragments in incomplete sentences my physical self my personal self are only so tolerable in full, they're overwhelming a never-ending novel the metaphors so long weaving through each chapter the meaning gets lost the animosity rises, boils instead i must merely acknowledge the fragments the pieces, the scraps, the leftovers that leave me intrigued with the story begging for more similes the imagery diving along each word content with the pages that are missing
the soft strings of the carpet nudge against my back creating small imprints along my skin, itching, begging for me to sit up my eyes fixate on the bright bulbs casting from my ceiling fan, burning, f
i climbed up the stairs to view my room for the last time my bedroom of nearly 18 years now a bare recollection there are so few traces of me in this room now its baby blue walls covered up by an expr
the stoplight glows between my eyelashes the murmur of the humid wind slowly wafting into my car wrapping my skin in warmth instead of the coat i refused to wear my clothes reek of an eight hour shift