[Bodey]

I’m nervous a lot, sad on purpose, distraught. An evil journalist plots against herself more than not, as if she likes to curve her palms around a furnace that’s hot. Slurpin up snot as she curses and flops from the tourniquet, shot, and now she’s teething curbs across her worthlessness—stop. Stop her impervious thoughts, they’re undeservingly cropped between the hemispheres, locked, until she sheds a tear, drops, and hurts beyond her years like a subservient clock

A blended scheme of madness, a commending lean to ratchets; a faggot with some matches covered in the devil’s gasses. Oh, it’s tragic, but I like it. The fact is I’m a dyke bitch that’s a magnet for the vices. A flight risk that the flies sniff before the rigamortis bites in. And starts to chortle as it tightens, and snorkels hepatitis and burrows indecisive like a human to a light switch; oh how dare I write this. There’s no use in tryna fight this. I’m a pussy like a slightly sliced wrist in the middle of a night shift