my vocabulary consists of words that tick boxes and mean nothing. I say ‘framework’ and ‘indicator’ more than the names of people that matter to me. when I listen to my own voice I am bored and disgusted. divinely uninspired and as stale as cardboard or the adult I promised myself I’d never grow into. is it better to read the news and be angry?
my friend sends a photo of what she found in the second hand store: twisted children’s toys we once displayed proudly on our bookshelves, now rare as diamonds even on the internet. I was a child then, and their features scared my parents, which is probably why I liked them. at eleven I tried to order more that never came. tonight they’ll watch over her sleeping from their perch on the shelf. the mould on the ceiling lingers like clouds obscuring stars and dreams. we make plans to write our wills together and pledge our trinkets to each other. I like the idea that my pin cushion queen will someday rule her vanity cabinet.
toxic thoughts I should leave to the stream feed on what little energy I can find like parasites, crawling into crevasses to set up camp. they are sticks of gum chewed into balls stuck under chairs in every lecture hall I’ve tried to learn in. was there gum under your seat today?
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