unicorn grief

Given my soft bones and trash esophagus I thought I could write one first thing about beautiful deer. Ohio said no. Ohio said revelation is something time passes on its way to angels watching zombie movies that boast antichrist cameos. I was reaching for an icicle. Cold was a ruin my young birth couldn’t still. Obsession is so ineffective. Ask Joseph. If nothing happens to me, I want everyone to know I was suicidal. My rabbit hole plagiarizes the shape of yours. Rabbit abyss. Rabbit void. I just want to be naked in between your Adam and mine. Oh empty stomach on which I slide moonless from the eel of a lover’s hunger. Oh touch. Insomnia is the last stage of puberty. This display is called skinning the god in front of a star. I was reaching for an icicle in that last place that came with a dog. Wilderness, farm, fag. Slurs a way to keep horses from eating too much. Oh intimacy, distant frostbite. I was reaching for an icicle when southward the orange dog Jake gifted the gone inheritance of visibility to the blaze my eyes made of exodus. Dying has its moment in the museum of itself.