and they close the hatch over your blissful eyes again.

You run from us with your metaphorical legs all around the yard like you belong here as a child.

but you will birth something of equal potential; and that, right there, is beauty.

Good Night, goodnight. Good Bye, goodbye.

Salt is in your wounds; they pour there, they always do.

Mhm. Mhm. Alright.

I beg of thee to stop these— these, these, those; feels.

so escape. hide. run.

Love Poetry Is Always About The Lover never The Beloved.

I wish I could swallow you, dry, and gurgle and gurgle and gurgle.