Down with the ground stone.

Not stoned with anyone.

The edge of the brain falls in on itself.

Line numbers and spaces for names.

Consistently reading and constantly needing.

I wonder what it looks like on the inside.

Inside of myself.

How the heart is broken.

Liver, brain and lungs.

Repair, as time passes.

The hairs on the back of my hand.

The rusty fingernails.

The ornamental shins.

What does she want with me?

Why can't I apply that question?

Where is the 'she' with me?

Repair, as time passes?

That gristle in my emotional line.

My timeline.

My family tree.

And noone next to me.

Read my palms.

They're empty.