fluffy the angler fish
the forks have all tuned themselves, and the spoons guard their upside-down reflections jealously, their silver hum choking every reservoir. and my book lungs have folded, there is no more air. and death's persistent state, nothing but unspoiling honeycombs and black elbow gloves and smog like gutters like paper boats keeled out windows. and everything wanes, behind the body you walked out of. the white sheets like epilogues, voices like pallbearers, long tunnels and beehive tombs, methane and captured moons, crazed planets. my demons need someone to talk to, their teeth keep growing, gnawing steadily, wearing themselves down. and i know you should never trust a ouija board, but i swear my fingers haven't touched the tracer, will stay away, will not expect an answer, but can't stop folding these paper airplanes, it is less lonely.