those muscles like a bowstring

like the greasy words slipping down your throat


around, what, 100 square feet?

the carpet and the bedframe

and the bookcases, buckling

beneath their own weight

look up

at used car prices, the night sky for all i care

and spend hours and hours and hours

scrolling through apartments on my phone

scribble down figures in notes

maybe i’ll take up running, maybe i’ll change my plans

but i don’t want to tell a soul


your jaw and try

to put a pin on why you feel sick

and why you can see it 

all rolling out before you


you’re walking on a tightrope, my music playing on loop

like the buzzing of a fly


up that story, up all those words

and grimace as they stick 

to your eyelashes, to the bottom of your throat

you’re never gonna forget those words that were said

when you were ten years old, so why don’t you

etch them into notebook pages

and tear through the paper with your pen

why don’t you feel useless, why don’t you stay up late

why don’t you sit inside these four walls

and drive yourself crazy

there’s a world out there, if only you could find it

if only you could go

if only you were braver

if only you didn’t feel so alone

as you talk and talk and talk

to tiny voices on the telephone


those fists into battering rams

into wrecking balls, ready to knock down whole rooms

in the span of one breath

i’m gonna spin around in circles until i catch my death

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