"justice sells crack, yo" - scrawled across the bathroom wall like someone thinks it's funny, and i'm wearing these glasses that used to clear up my world but now they just make my eyes ache and blur the shapes of those hipsters across the room. i'm uneasy, my jittering stomach and echoing eavesdropping ears trying to keep me from these critical constructions. justice sells crack, yo, and i'm not sure what's just about anything, reading about everyone else's strange childhoods and lost loves and hidden complexities. maybe it's better to be half-blind and tight-eyed, not to fool myself into thinking i can see anything at all. everyone's full of oceans, and tight masses of branches like they've gulped down trees past a sense of regression. (do you remember the first time you looked through lenses, and yr world fell into beautifully harsh new complexities? do you remember the first time you saw pine needles, leaving the optometrist, leaning out the open car window with yr mouth open wide for all the green multiplicity you'd been missing?)
who knew?
that devilish, delicious smile that ravages yr face. sunshine leaking across the greasy carpet. i pretended to know what i was talking about, but all i can handle, really, is less than my own small corner of this world. they keep on saying hello. i keep on making up excuses. mirrors are a mystery, and when i ride that tiny bike with my knees up near my earlobes it feels like a little bit of truth about the infrequency, inadequacy, infertility of submersion.
things don't fit, is all i'm saying, except for all these ripped-up clothes that i've cobbled back together with dental floss and optimism, except for the worn-down groove of a leather saddle and my legs that can't ever quite carry me in a straight line. justice is something in the way i walk into walls, tables, other shoulders. justice is losing track of my own boundaries, of the lines that contain me. i'm leaking out into these streaky fantasies, and yr cutting all yr hair off to get back at me.
