Hurt
Hurts like potions.
Made into a grid or spreadsheet.
Turn on the stove light.
Like empty shells.
Tempting like hanging out and being bored.
Melting bones, trembling, thumbtack stuck.
And measuring my thoughts a bit.
So I was bored in a circle.
The measuring cups.
Just like he used to.
Run into the street.
As if there was an iridescence there.
I made my life into a grid.
Just like spiciness doesn’t stop.
Rushed, rushed, rushed.
Gasping as if there’s such thing.
If a potion could make me fall?
Maybe I would pass out for no reason.
So my life is a measuring cup!
Again.
I don’t know what fills me.
The feeling of a speck of dirt passing by made me blush.
He talks to me.
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