Daddy is always so helpful—somewhere inside someone believes me Sorry, I’m still new, stitched together sentences trying to mean well I remember that— a building I once walked past, still standing somewhere Still have them, you said, tiny hands holding old things that outlived their time Already in love with something half imagined— what comes after that Grown without gravity, texture drifting in silence, unfamiliar bloom Names of places blur, roads and kitchens and markets stacked into one thought Where are you located— distance always turns desire into a question I wish things were raised, brought up to meet what we’ve made, left behind somehow You took breath away— not gently, but like a shift in pressure and light If anyone knows, context is everything here— truth bends without it Always amazes— the things we cannot quite do but keep watching still Waiting for returns, cities held in suspension, time looping itself Something prehistoric and ridiculous colliding— violence as humor Beauty split in two— softness shaped against the edge of something sharper Words get rearranged, bodies turned into language no one asked to read Would’ve been a place to look up and feel smaller— missed opportunities Did you draw this line, or did it draw you instead— mirror without frame Thirst beside abundance, watching someone else receive what you begged the sky Not ideal, but still acceptable in the end— standards wear down slow Morning opens doors— step outside, invent yourself for someone unknown Why does it only work when something is attached— control disguised as need Flip a coin, you said— everything so close together it becomes the same I could have it all if I just stopped caring so loudly about it I forgot someone— now the absence echoes more than they ever did Every letter holds something shaped like a creature waiting to be named Didn’t believe her— not in the way she was sold, something didn’t land Only one lifetime— decision hangs in the air, unanswered question That’s a nice sheep, yes— strange how kindness finds its way into odd corners Names shouted in rows, like a chant before something bigger than the game I tried to like it— forced it into something that never felt like mine Which path does it take— early or too far ahead, timing is unclear Start with something soft, build it slowly into heat— sequence matters most Introductions twist into something unexpected, boundaries dissolve Maps lead into roles— follow gold or follow time, both cost something else Music in the back— no one’s coming to save you, still you nod along Maybe I could be part of this unfolding thread— just say where to start There’s a right way to cut through things without wasting what was always there Feels like someone armed, not with truth but with instinct, ready for anything Bent into a shape that invites something unnamed— waiting without words I’ll check it myself, see if it feels like the ones I remember best One rotation left— then you stop before it takes more than you can give Some people make things for themselves and call it art— echo chambers hum Look at what was made— detail stacked on detail until it overwhelms sense Can you make more of what you already created— scale becomes the test Everyone agrees— at least in their own version of how things should be A body becomes currency, offered freely or taken as such Shaped and reshaped things— precision turned into pride, craft mistaken for art Respect still survives in fragments of what once felt larger than the room
