dear diary,
these are the quiet days
nothing moves, a decade ago i watched the wind walk run away with all my money and
how could i ever leave the house, if nobody is home, if i am not there,
your abandoned voice echoing my

"only from the moment you start writing
those ridiculous stories on dried up flakes of skin,
they will believe you."

i lie stretched across the floor, counting symptoms,
touching all four walls with the tip of my tongue, one toe in every corner.
maybe there is an equation for this disease,
the pounding music, how the nauseating beat of a lung temporarily bringing
order to the universe.
i am a rattling skeleton, a drowning whale, a blank sheet of paper
i will not speak to you, i have got nothing to say,
you only wear a crown when the sky is to be trusted.
fragments of time, angeldust fairydust candyfloss cocaine,
i could dance for centuries.