moths v butterflies, but with a lot more #s.

i scribbled ten numbers on my forearm. from the driver seat of a ninety-nine tracker to five fingers pushing twenty-five pieces of tin into payphone slots...foolishly awaiting conversations lost through seventeen-hundred plus mile distances to a cold sphere of a receiver on one ear that equates to nothing more than hearing a generic voiceless voice mail recording. oh dear, it appears as if i shouldn't adhere to these numerous words you hurl at me with such absoluteness and sincerity.

we slow down. remembering how this was. and i unwillingly slosh through twenty-four to forty-eighty hour life spanned bugs to come back here, a place close enough to home, but without the connotations one's abode should hold.


six foot three, twenty three years old, and 3 years deep in me, my insides, and my faded memory.

our actions have always equated to reckless at worst, and hasty at best. with a death before dishonor crest tattooed, above his heart, or where i assume one would reside, on his chest, i make a request for a guarantee that he thoughtlessly agrees to to appease my upsetting worries. per chance it will be different.

a false Floridian phonied-fable i break my spine to lament over.



crimson blood
and fucking

four leaf clovers.

where?