Sunday, May 17, 2009


PREDICTIVE SCRIPT


If you’re so smart, how come
you don’t just say it, my love,
my offal, my premature
transmission, my rapturous malady?

How come you don’t just say it,
a trench between the sentences,
the last place you wanted to dig?

How come I’m chasing myself,
when everyone else has left me?

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Monsters