Word Vomit #2

Tangled airplane jets and red.
Redredredredredredredred.
Potted plants and spilled stones, sighs and groans and moans and pounds of you to kill me softly with sticks and stones.
Premature laughter and sweat and gallbladders, turning gears to quiet me.
Written down, spoken aloud, suburban mothers and love affairs with diamond rings that glint in champagne. Spiky hair and eyebrow rings don’t really go together.
There’s a certain cadence, a certain melody to life that looks like the jagged picture frame you hurled at the sky.
Tennis shoe beats and perfect circles, chalk and erasers. Love seat memoirs and lounging, lounging on your mountain giant, lounging on your giant of broken.
According to robots, we’re so flawed that humans technically don’t even exist but according to us we’re “learning”.
When will the lesson be over?
You did it to yourself.
Why? Because we’re learning. We’re drifting, we’re smearing lipstick and using caution tape on our bodies to say: “Don’t come near. We’re marinating from last time.”
Does your skin hurt? Did you burn it? Are you sagging, did someone steal your color? How were you born that way? What’s the difference between you and me?
I regret it. But who doesn’t? you have to have at least one secret, no matter how obscure.