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It isnât safe, but itâs not sorry; the gas is growing crystals in the lungs.
Itâs not bad, but itâs not perfect: maybe this is just a trial run.
Is this my house? Do I own free weights?
I am a fucking man, my chromosomeâs a forked tongue.
Itâs my garage: itâs my gas, my car, my time, and my enclosure.
Donât be last, and donât be lonely. See a special kind of timing in the leap.
Donât be cruel, donât be annoying, donât sell yourself short.
Is this my ring? I must have four kids.
The dimpled plastic roof is not quite yellow.
Are these my hands? They look like trees choked out by vines.
Is this my breath? Itâs more like gun-smoke?
Two fingers pulling greasily at chicken.
Is that the sun? It looks too sharp and clean:
a bubble filling endlessly with air.
Is this my friend? It feels to forced for that.
It isnât wrong, but itâs not quite right.
Now living feels like whispering at night.
I have a couch, I have a TV now.