the wave of my life is cresting on itself, before i go. its breaking and foaming what tiny little fun things and riches it has somehow swept up from the ocean's floor.
i cant wait to leave, like always.
armies of dead clouds have puffed out of this mouth too many nights in this room. my fingernails and hair indifferently grow on me. the hair on my ankles doesnt care when i'm in a panic. pores in my skin open and close like anemonies while scars flake and heal. poisons pass through my gut, casually, through my sooty lungs. everything is held up on the pads of my narrow-boned feet.