PANK SOON
And sometimes the storefront is nothing. The cold glass keeps me dry but the cold glass is made of rain water, too. I try not to think of my wet pants, I try not to smell the liquor-stink of hydraulic fluid under my fingernails. Sometimes we’re playing Jenga instead of Tetris. I try to walk away but I still hear you say I DON’T LIKE TO TAKE ALL THE PIECES APART ALL AT ONCE. There’s a television in the living room. I wish there was a television in the bathroom so I could drown and stay away simultaneously. You see my perfectly bent sheets of steel. You see the rough black paint. Everything here is meant to keep me from slipping away, to keep the rust lonely. Even dry clothes don’t keep me warm, even clean sheets are dirty if you look at them properly.
