blub

Wheels won't turn they won't turn the birdy's head. Sad eyes sad eyes like sharpened daggers. You'll never walk only stagger, sad eyes quite cryptic, bye.

Take everything apart, and then put it together again. Oh, silly child, you still can’t find what’s missing. You need someone to take you by the hand and tell you, “there, in that jar on the shelf, it’s yours.” It sits just where you can’t reach. Where you can’t scrape it under your nails, where your hungry hands can’t devour it. Like anything else, the light on the front porch when you were a child, you can’t find your own way. You’re waiting for someone to turn the light on for you again. Is this what being an adult is? Is it the light always being off as you stumble up the porch steps? Of course it is. Oh, of course.

It’s still dark as you throw up, hands wandering against the railing. It’s always dark. You’re always looking for the switch, and god you wish you could find it. Oh, silly child, silly silly child.