in the walls
run me down
find me out
continue on
tracing my silences.
They say:
you hurt, you are not good
in the morning
you buckle under
the pointless roof
and your pointless head
and cry into peeled paint
perfect wrists in felt weight
but your deep dug bed
is turning, will turn you
out to me
the cracks in the walls
the ceiling
and the plans I have for you are made.
jul 4, 11
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