—I’M GRATEFUL TO BE CRYING, CRYIN’G OVER YOU

 

 

F   r   i   d   a   y    #   11  

 

 

Dark as obsidian. A thickened ore. Blindness brought to life. Two pin pricks of light where a life should be. A bleak dive through insomnia, tangled up in kelp. The past is a bloated corpse dying to massage my back. There’s an answer painted black, black, black. I could swim for years like this, or maybe I already have.