Let There Be Seasons So

I Was Spread Out Dailyand Examined For Flaws.

Meanwhile In My Head, I’m Undergoing Open-heart Surgery.

I’ll Put It Out There: I Am Scarred By The Nostalgic Indicipherability Of My Own Desires; I An Engulfed By The Intimidating Unknown, Pushed Through Darkness And Dragged Down By The Irretrievable Past Sweetness Of My Memories.

Loving Me With My Shoes Off Means Loving My Long Brown Legs, Sweet Dears, As Good As Spoons; And My Feet, Those Two Children Let Out To Play Naked.

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.