the always

always seems to be

a good relapsing measure

to take control of how much

i need to stop.

how many times a week my stomach feels full of trash and sadness

how many times me eyes flutter with fear

how often i cry when i can't control what surrounds me

how long it takes for us to wake up

it's a forever that's definite;

buried in my blood like good old

sinking stones

and i have images of sinking but

they're nothing like what i've seen before

speed dial 1

i guess you can't remember... i guess the voices are fleeting through your head now but back in the day we heard the siren call. and when the walls bent over us i could only hear your voice murmuring "i'm glad you're here..." but i guess you can't remember. i don't blame you, anyway. i don't call you, anyway. i can't say i'm sorry because there's nothing to be sorry for. being alive? the rain? the travelling on buses to get you? i guess the walls could melt but i'll still hear your voice silently calling me back to bed when the windowpanes got stained... i guess i can almost... fuck it. it doesn't matter anyway. good night.

ribs

yes it's bones
but it's my bag of bones