and I broke the tip jar so there’s

no way to give me a penny.

I feel out there like a

rabid bird and an

open letter.

There’s wind all ready to be

stomped on

but it’s still not

making me feel clean.

I set my bangs on fire and they

made that smell that burnt hair does

when it curls

into a whole lot of zeroes.

It’s something I wrote down but

can’t remember:

your hammock strings strained or

how a real laugh tightens your stomach;

a video-game jump scare or

if Ocean felt different when I was different.

I started believing in the Quickening

because since when did

Wednesday run so fast?

Knees bent all the way down

until they buckle.

It would be funny if it

didn’t feel like there was something

being taken from me.

I swept and swept and keep

finding glass shards wiggling their way

into my white socks. Is there

anything pretty about it?

When I’m not freezing cold

I wind surf

and all the trees think

How good she flies!