I love collecting,
more than me, more than me.
Pretty rose days to subdue.
Then night, perfumes of whiskey,
breath dry and sweet so they know
I’m that type of pretty.

Pretty lies, underneath the lace,
leather licks-
linger,
longer.

And they love me,
they love me.
They tell me so all the time,
breathing too close with that cigarette stink.
If I were still a girl, I’d pack a bag, slam an apple in hand, and profess to all,
I'm running.
I never did make it past those green gates, now I’m trapped there,
behind that green plaster; and I don’t know the way.
Melatonin is mistaken for an antidote.
Existence casts a shadow in that dark matter spill, squeezing out the amalgamation of selves in between.

My bag stretched out and transparent like putty enshrines me; imbued with all my pretty little things.
They swallow them with bleach, those who dare to dream in the land of fallacies.
I want to scream:
care about me,
care about me!

A smog-induced haze; has pumped up all the falling stars with amnesia.
All is lost but that floating amorphous thing in the ether;
devoid of mass, the holes are left in sky,
so night’s always empty.