grave

Killing myself amidst corpses of cicadas, chainsmoking ciggerettes. Tying up loose ends, splaying the bows across reporting templates, bullseye targets.

The freshness of neon and airconditioner hum, the phlegm in my throat and the rotations of days. The endless challenge to be honest amidst cross eyeds and rising river beds and bitumen oasises.

The stampede of christmas, the hum of the season stretched out across keyboards and grass plains. The illusion of speed, of growth and adulthood. The secrets I choose not to keep.