i promise i'm trying really fucking hard.
leaving salt trails on cotton,
you’d wait to be
passes, whose flashback to single seated travel,
in gender confusions of gender and unintelligible utterances.
you are thin
your back shows in to out
your skin, mimetic, your bones a reference, yours,
skin a palimpsest, scars wrinkled and stretched to too thin, not thin enough
draped then taut the transparent.
i don't know what to say anymore.