Each piece of floor is covered with a stain. Each piece of floor is covered with underwear. Dark spots on the moon, dark spots on my palms. The darkness covers you too, not because I’m angry but because I spend all day climbing an old ladder. I try to never look through the files in the attic, I try to pretend I have no idea why you’re disappointed with me. You see, sometimes it hurts so bad to pretend the world is a warm bedroom. Sometimes I stare out through the rows of cars and see nothing at all. The field of flowers is actually an empty storefront. The field of flowers is so fucking dramatic and emotional. You see I tend towards hyperbole. You see I cry at the most beautiful piece of cement I can find.
