Unfinished
Into the rubble it goes.
Old snacks rolled underneath.
And crisp crumbles.
It’s baked into my head.
Pops like skin.
When you’re so anxious.
You can’t shiver.
There’s blades of grass squirming everywhere.
Ahh!
But you keep on drooling as if there’s a slide for drool.
No amount of anxiety-
Is unfinished business.
It’s finished-
In firm plastic molds.
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