Fresh ingredients

Time scrapes at me. The weekends choices bubble under my skin and fold like elastic left

Out in the rain.

My fear of playing musical instruments- the sacrifice and sadness of blowing. 

The silence and fear and convention of caring. More than just the wind. 

Sharing and swallowing.

You are a guy, and I am a girl. 

The honesty of it all. Showered and shaved. To lip born of pimpled picked pain. groups yearning is stifled. 

Rocks through maidens Windows showers shards of broken glass. Crushed between pestle and

Mortar heart. Running running, blubbering boulders could coil. Colliding at my chin. Falling the my chest. Cold shivers and pins cut from my eyes and jam in my nose. My empty head and heavy heart race with the loss of human reasonableness. Farted fluster. Flushing gushing graces of my own immoral suit. Armoured sentimentalities. Flaking down. Shameless. Silent. Worried and unlearning. The best version of myself, and I’m still not right. 

Alight. White paper. Without being weighted down, fearful. Nonsense.

I just want you to be with. 

I haven’t got time for your fear, worry or shame. They are immaterialism – devoid and lacking. My confidence is born of practice. Time elopes me. Slithering and slanting. This hell of earthquakes makes hills of dimples and children of the banal. 

Riots strike at the cement foundations and I fall. Skull crushingx

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