Down Interstate 278. I’m a killer. I’m too thin.
In the year of our Lord 1866, on the 5th of September, let me go.
to the place where every thing eventually burns.
The Battle Creek Sanatarium.
Do you mind if I touch you?
Do you think they’ll notice?
there is a ceiling. and my lap.
And you’re not in it. And my mind is going to pot.
If you will me to you.
I’d lose all recollection from such pleasure.
It’s how you move.
I should be locked away. You should swallow the key.
You are the place where prayers and kisses come to meet.
I won’t fuck it up.
My conscious hesitates to walk by your street.
the idolization of your lower abdomen has me. on my knees.
it’s only a slight reach.