Pockets filled with the residue of buildings, fallen into an ex-lovers arms. Dreaming of rotten bone and the first time we were removed without boundaries of communication. The idea of growing used to something and then tiring of it is circular and confusing. Again, it ends in pocket ash, staining the jeans with over flow. Put your nose between his shoulder blades, keep his back opposite direction with fabric to intervene with smell. Is there really any difference of half knowing and then feeling, into nothing. Pass by each other, do eyes lift or stay straight like awkward strangers? Do you put your hand on her back, or did you ever? Anger is too common. A battle of wits and overexertion turned to pretension.

I am tired of being an angry woman. A woman who looks and likes conflict. A woman who likes to twist words only to string together a weakened attack. This is the birth of my surroundings and the natural self that was given to me isn't quite as clear. To be dramatic and angry, these are bad people's traits. Even if you see in yourself a good person...