for my eyes (but you can look too.)

lua's on repeat and i'm laughing at how predictable i am.

i feel like pulling on a sweater

and sitting with my crane train journal

on my bare bed at home.

i'd probably burn the only candle i use

plug in the seashell string of lights

and sigh

feeling heavy

staring at the ceiling

trying not to think

and feel

simultaneously.

i'm a caricature of myself.

finding the soft dip between

the flashing mirth of others

and everlasting forgiveness

with myself

is my salted cavity

of a flaw.

my epitaph will read: blank.

empty of all common sense

laden with emotional logic.