‘did you think it was about you again?’

—- ten dozen tired eyes at dusk, 5743, and a story that won’t begin. a draping under the curtained monotony, just another mind melding matrimony. a happy birthday lingering in late June’s grave. I’m fine, I’m vomiting. a vertical one hundred and eighty degrees. north no matter your venom. I’m trying, I’m adapting. just up and down and outwards of this skin. and the tropics are so frigid from out here’s perspective. this dense atmospheric fog lingering in the lungs. a steady choking, like we pay for it every time we breathe. like this dagger that stopped the bleeding in my neck. finally. the truth can come out of its ingrown spot. this same realization that ‘father’ is just another word wasted on you in the dictionary.