stop frying ants if they aren't trying to bite you.

open wounds, or open doors, or open whatevers surprise you
tossing out things that infuriate your inners long, long, long distances
and heartbeats
and sunsets after the fact.

Which heartbeat's thud will ring in an era of not caring and not checking?

- I scrutinize these proverbial doors and gauges as if they've possibly changed,
only to catch some cruel aberration on a given Sunday that reverberates through thoughts till sound waves fade and die between my heart and my ribs-
silence remains like a corpse I willfully disregard.

my magnifying glass is broken, but I'm still preemptively frying red ants?


on an entirely different page (723)

I'm in to candles. I'm reading a book about vampires. I'm in love.