a collection of things:

  • red lines on my neck
  • the chain that I have, which is from my mom. Just plain. I haven’t taken it off in months.
  • my ring, from my friend. three silver lines across it, separated by black.
  • the split in my lip that is perpetually bleeding
  • blood isn’t the worst taste in the world
  • succulents dying by my window
  • the pile of papers I have blocked from my mind
  • Shifting around in bed and getting up for a second to crack my neck
  • then resuming the same position until I shift again
  • seeing people being productive from afar
  • looking out the window at night and watching folks cross the street on their way home
  • the raccoons I saw two days ago, going somewhere together
  • There’s a cup on my bureau, which has a metal skewer. The tip is sharp and I look at it from where I sleep.
  • ive memorized my room. I know the angle my light is at, the order of the shirts in my closet, the way my papers are piled up on the floor, the drape of the scarf over my mirror.
  • when I walk outside at night.
    im reminded of the feel of walking across the park to see my friend in the early hours. The air smells like those visits.

I don’t know. It’s just a collection of things.

art credit to: mateusz urbanowics


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