I like being stuck in this covetous free tale
but I find myself reeking of toxic infatuation
for the ghosts drenched in apple coated skyscrapers
and chewed gum of the head mistress.
They paste their immaterial letters onto lost footprints of the hungry
and bury their teeth into the flesh of concrete vines.
With no voice or ears to guide them sane
they peel each memory into a box of scars and hold it to drain.
An ants scream will break the seal
so they hide in bottoms of used coffee mugs
blending into ambiguous highs of household drugs.
I stretch my line across grazing hallways
I want to take back whats mine
but the hook is now your reflection
and I'm having trouble finding mine.
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