if we could begin with the end, then we’d save the best parts for last and it would be so sweet
the ink in this pen, a few weeks, mid-sentence
every traced line, letter, number, and shape — except for circles, zeros, and eights
my favourite book
your neighbours cat
100,000 strands of hair on my head are already half dead
one row up on the family tree, in queue for editing
those names that creep further down in my message history
and now i’m thinking about all the ugly, unworn shirts from shein
even the universe might have an edge
if i could fly towards it and go down in history for my discovery,
i wouldn’t because i was born on 08/08/93
mystics and the souls of mischief might suggest that means a connection to infinity so how could i risk destroying its possibility when i’d rather hold it in my hand every night while i close my eyes and fall asleep