i have a severe fear of laying onto routine. of covering myself with certainty only to become stale like the loaf of bread twisted under itself too loosely. not so much one step forward two steps back, rather taking a step only to take another with that same foot. yet i’m scared of instability, disregarding the type. i am a constant war within the closed doors called skin. what i have isn’t what i want, however when i let go i yearn in circles for it back.
the shell on my shoulders fills and seeps. my mind creates clouds of thunder pulling me from under my own feet and i won’t remember this conversation or the closeness of your eyes or the size of your ears.















