piecemeal

I don’t know what about my unravelling sweaters and raw nerves sends you running. My gnawed fingers, my broken feet, you give me nothing.

I want to open my head or let it fall back on the hinge of my neck and expose my throat to the  smog and the acid rain and the dead birds falling down with squishy little thumps on the sidewalk, tripping me up. I want to shake you by the shoulders just as hard as I can, snap my wrists and fall asleep and follow YOUR dreams.

Tell me where we’re going now, railroad tracks, homeless man on the subway, Vincent Van Gogh, lend me your ears. 

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