this is the place. there are no forgotten lyrics because we are the song, our backs are paintings made from scars on burns, and our feet can fly as our heads float on major lifts. our fingers can hook firmly behind our bones and release the pressure with a resounding crack. mend and break, mend and break, feel the power explode over and over again. shoulder blades and collar bones shatter daily, a cause for rejoicing in the streets made of blood and champagne mixed with paint where the jew sails on a raft of newspapers and a paddle made of feathers. i will never see you the same way again, and you will never see me at all and your eyes will freeze shut as you avoid the face of god for eons and atoms and searches for tesseracts. there were hysterical tears and lies and then something broke and yet i still pray for you a merry christmas and a midsummer made of confederate soldiers. you meant what you said when you told me i wouldn’t go insane on your watch. you have stopped watching and i have stopped minding the blood and instead i laugh at record players and typewriters, and are we made of roots or stardust? get these rocks out of my palms, there is too much salt water and this place is drowning with change pain paper songs ant bites and the taste of my own skin. we cannot get out.