Full of alone woe, essential grounds. I did not bury, so I cannot harvest. I wish to squish openly. Homemade itch relief, I have a hard time asking. So this is how to form the perfect fine-face-disguise.
Ripping apart, crushed skin is being shed. Who besides me would care to see underneath? I am selective of my loneliness due to what I need, understanding is not at hand. Until it is and I find myself growing more concerned about myself. More attached and wanting to spend and speed. Near.
Double downhill to the graveyard pond. Funny how the red shirt thought we could not be real, as much as we thought it of him. Grateful for no reply to my reaching.
I make of my own struggle what I will. Setting aside preservation to face the useless appendage growing inside. I want to stay in it for now.