Saturday, August 31, 2002


I always end up here.
Surrounded by people with similiar glasses.
Dizzy and vaguely frantic with the heat.
Considering and discarding,
like broken lovers,
or broken love.
I get a green feeling
behind my navel,
somewhere between nausea
and hunger.
My fingernails break.
My teeth crumble.
I fantasize continually about salad.
It happens every time.

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