Chapter Text
In that brown house, the one lush and rich.
On the cold ice, that large fishbowl. The
track or the bed or the seats I find myself in.
I keep a bruise or many, purple and yellow or green.
I get them more often now, as I grow. I think you do, too.
And I do grow. I gain the strength, the stripes to show for it.
But there are thorns in my dinner that
weren’t there before.
So I pick. So I sort through it. So I take the bites or the act of it and it’s just funny, right?
It’s funny. To you, to him, to me.
Or maybe not me.
Maybe it’s not very funny at all.
