“you hate them,” he’d say.

drew me in to navel gaze.

crushing grip on the back of my

skull. a whore’s experience

left in the snow.

shaking questline, crying babe.

“why do I hate them,” that’s what

I’d say.

shore incredible, stake the stakes

in the sand.

I could pick you out by the back of your hand.

thunder on while the vision is lucid,

oval tint at the crack of dawn.



tender sleep for my fair kid.

he doesn’t know what I’d have did.

woke him up by tugging his hair.

slap him once, then hold him there.



the place that contains the list of the containers of words