when a gale storm yanked my body
& gave each stretchmark a name
strong enough to penetrate my nightmares
we would understand this sentence later.
the echoes here aren't soundproof.
I know its smell like a graveyard,
with all its coffin cough,
dust in porcelain, concealed like secrets
and funny vultures with their own potential butcher's lifestyle.
yesterday life disarmed my blinds to scrape off a rust that smells like calm.
my nose wrenches my mother's numbness in every puff.
so I spam the uninvited part of myself on the walls, and in
and worlds like this, lay down a body in midnight sobs.
my brother wrote his body in a country and painted it with his own
the yellowish color increases in my complexion, my temperature and my sugar level
imagery: a butterfly kisses a live candle & melts
into oil paint — an artist's brush reenacts the faces of her lament
I run to hear its drops again.
it turned out that he was selling the genre for him.
dies intermittently and wants to blame his body.
I'll sink it in a basin to isolate the risk in it.
the name change starts with a bad habit,
then with a defect.
a broken color vowel of your mistakes.
a whirlwind separates my sink
and charges it to the bare floor.
so if we run out of numbers,
my brother still has a lot left of him
to make a living.