Echoes in the long and constant.
Bitterness toward me but I don't move.
My soft refusals are all blades and glitter.
Fuck the stucco.
Fuck dying here.
Fuck assets elsewhere.
Can fantasy flash into being?
There has to be a better formula.
What is the sum of 8 and 6:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.