I sit here drinking Just thinking and over thinking Every sound your words make I try dressing and undressing every vowel, syllable, and pause of your sentences. I write small tiny script even though that's not my type. I write shamefully, in embarrassment, these words that paint the images created in my mind. My strands of hair sit lifeless on my thumb as I write. I don't move them- I like the image of wholeness it makes. The idea that I have not fallen apart. Now my type is cursive, it's swayed letters melting into one another. The sudden strength building up as the ink flows through. Who do I love. Is it you, him, her, me. Them, us, my ideas, my thoughts. I love my mother and she loved me. So here we go again to being my fucking drama bee. making shit up from what I pick up on the streets. The bows, the toys, the dirt and rocks I like to display next to your piece. Fuck, where is home? I forget. Is it only on nights when we fuck in bed. Is it wishful thinking to dream u...