Tomorrow, I think,

I'll have a yard sale,

and sell all of the shit

I've got stored in my brain.

It's collecting dust on

those high-up shelves, while

angels and devils

play Risk on my skull,

relentless against my lapsing 'time'.

That bleach-white armour

does me no good at all

as they chart out their territories

for confusion, hesitance,

and a subtle but vicious doubt.

I'm tossing and turning,

trying my best to grasp

the simple and naïve dream,

the forgetting,

but they're using my memories

for artillery;

this is a child's war no longer.