my nose is crooked and twisted, not misses by a bottle of champagne and the pain has subsided but the line belies the impact.
the crack of glass on bottle, the crack of glass on bottle, the crack of glass on bone and
stones are more solid.
slipping softly to sleep i keep from doing, ruining my chances of concussion.
the percussion of rushing blood pulsing in my face places me in an awkward position, twisting ground from body, propping eyes from drooping, looping memories to keep me from repeating this cycle,
for my survival.
portfolio and thoughts from a messenger in an urban context
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