no, it won’t save me
to sleep under the covers,
for i haunt myself.

shower therapy

they look in drain pipes
to find clues—things washed away
by those who are lost

the melancholy death of oyster boy and other stories. why is this not endless?

my brain is a fucking torture device.

hitting a snag in the gender department.

this couch may need to be burned once i decide to get off of it and shower.