ships in a glass bottle

forage for food. crack shells with back teeth and suckdry the sweet. a lawn of details, trust in the driver until the train derails. and i could keep saying that it's not my fault. but there are fault lines that crack the crust and force answers up from hell. she and he wanted to prove how much they had each other, so the teased and bathed in butter, and dripped dry in the sun until we inhaled nothing but char-scent. i think maybe sometimes you find it difficult to just rhyme with, to just go-with-it, to be free-apathy and nevermind-in-it. I don't really feel like being your example. I don't feel like crawling from the petrie dish in the middle of you experiment. I don't feel like coming on your great voyage across the sea, away from everything that used to be me. You to be used, like you. I'm not really into scouring the pans clean and lapping up the soapy leftover scum. I don't do windows and I try to avoid mirrors. there are so many grains of sand on that beach where you fly away occasionally that I am absolutely sure you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between them. I think you truly believe you love the wind, I mean it can blow you off course, it can blow away those lies you laid with in the open fields. go to motherfuckin' Castle Island if you want to sail off. I'm still afraid that your wind, your wind that you think about o-so-much could blow a fire across the field, into the trees, and throughout our buildings. Burn. It could just blow back home. Good thing my sails are covered by glass.