life seems like a black-nail-lacquered game to me... you speak of release as if i'm a dog (who ran away years ago) where is my house? my collar, my chain? (in your hands, along with the keys..) jingle. the noise (abhorrent as the beat, the pulse) in my ears.
05/27/2002
Posted on 05/27/2002Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe