By Sumita Dutta
Absolutely wreck the car off the universe and then come and climb into the back seat.
I think even Marx would sit on a love seat and smoke a fag, for this moment is no cobblestone.
Your shirt is purple; a cow kissing grass. The sulk is only a space between hand and elbow
tip it over like a waterfall of Robitussin that is making you feel like Drain-O coated esophagus which is:
“actually not what you ordered for dinner.”
Remember waking up from untimely naps like three year olds lost in the mall.
oh my god
let the twinkle eat its own face
I want the Bridge to Terabithia and light-hearted splinters
not rape daydreams and treadmill mathematics
I want head on arms caught up in the upward
not, “is this a bad angle for my chin?”