In an effort to keep not saying the wrong thing I write about something else. Still, I hold the wrong thing in the palm of my head. I keep it inside me. I don't let it out. You have to know what not to say to not say it. You have to know the rules. They write stories about the people who say it. They don't live where I live and I don't want to move there. I approximate saying the right things by knowing softer words, cleaner truths. I never say the word itself, I only say the definition. If you say it efficiently they'll know you did your research. They don't want research, they want first thoughts. I know enough not to say those. It's the wrong thing to say. I say tired when I mean scared. I say desire when I mean scared. Or vice versa. I'm always thinking about the people who actually say it. Braver or stupider? Do they not know the rules? I'm terrified of the sterile white underbelly of the world. I desire the sterile white underbelly of the world. The sterile white underbelly of the world will never have me. I am so, so tired—period. In an effort to keep living where I live I strip the truth of feathers. The truth lies there pinkly like a plucked chicken. If the truth is a plucked chicken the wrong thing is a dinosaur, or a man. The wrong thing keeps growing new rows of sharp teeth and the teeth keep falling out, but always it gums and bites and gnaws at me from the inside of the palm of my head.
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2087
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snowghoul
