Here's to my broken heart.
Pieces of my soul litter the floor and crunch satisfactorily 'neath the soles of my free-trade, Chinese shoes.
I could probably spend the next 15 years with a tube of crazy glue and tweezers, but you know I don't have much patience with arts & crafts.
My porky fingers have great difficulty grasping what my stubby little mind cannot seem to.
A half-man/half-monster weathers this war of the words with a fizzy bubble and hugs the edge of the cosmos with his tortured ideas of romance.
Yawning, I lean my head into the goose down pillow and stretch my arm, out and then in, with fingers extended into the slippery, warm, musky, moistness of my child-brain.
Massage. Rinse. Repeat.
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