Skin dries until it flakes the wings of gray moths. Run so you cannot hear your bones grind and pop out of their sockets. Lungs made into cages for your heart, a heart that cannot beat. The pressure builds like a submarine and white sugar beads of sweat squeeze out fragments and shreds remaining of your broken torn-down transformation into me. Stitches cannot help but staples can.
Red knit sunshines from your grandmother's strings.
Eeehhh . . . Not so good.
YOU ARE READING
My randomness
RandomA collection of my thoughts in dark and complex ways, some may be better than others, and it doesn't follow a story-line, but has interesting ideas.
