ML PRESS SOON
When I wake you are not a ghost and try so hard to dream bowls of clay drying in the daylight but you push me so hard I crack. You see even when I want to be happy I am a trashcan full of muck. I am rotting mostly. The bottoms of my feet are ruined. The bottoms of my feet are not soft but made of nails. I walk on nails but not peacefully. I walk on nails in a rage made of the torn cardboard of a cereal box. I leave it for you to find at night, I leave it for you to find at night when you go to bed wonderfully, your shirt dampened by your hair, your hair knotted.
