Look it is like what I said: I know as soon as when I look in your eyes that all oceans erupt with violence and very small fish fin their way across a cold bluish iris of souls and creep into pocket phones and scraps of what used to be golden paper folded along prefab lines printed for those nursing a wounded belief in destiny. Which I have issues with since smaller worlds than one which contains one’s Fulbright Scholarship, health scares, and scary selfies, crumbles before me, us, into Honda Civics with personalized plates and sexual prowess; isn’t this world just a shot short ofmorphing into Cafe Flesh? Death knocked once and oddly lost that game. Lost to a spectacled funnyman; a story written before comics got held to account for their failed gags, which still seems inconclusive these days, a write off, what with allegations resting about other powerful men. They sit atop makeshift lockers of women parts, so many allegations, that now my stomach turns as though smaller worlds within, intestinal, these worlds within force my hands through all that glass reflecting bad chemistry with waves and blood shimmer. Words. Pulled by gravity, pulling me down into pools residing in Page 32 - Nine Mile Magazine

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