half_asleep_poem_seventy_two raze this is my last meaningful act: a feeble poison you call caring. even when a man hears a mountain at the start with hushed, dried ink in his belly, i don't think he hears any of what you do to me. your haunted clothes make dark my mirrored mouth. i don't have words for what can bother harmony between the cracks. there are some things i won't tell you, but i promise they'll be birds. 240720 what's it to you? who go blather from