Almost dead.

The sink of history drips until it’s almost dead

and we exist in fragments of time, our

creations.

Here we are.

It’s easier to hide from morals and good judgment.

so we eat to make ourselves a little fuller, each day.

consuming

in our same clothing style, almost

vintage, reaching retro, always fast

fashion. we search futilely, grasping

skin & skin &

transparency,

or a lack of

“lifestyle” like “trying to find life”

style, like “i don’t know what i want

but i know i don’t have it” skeleton

reaching for more.

and yet,

I run. in my writing I am always

running from inevitability. and so

I rise

a little tired, dusting off,

and find myself

still—

running.