Naked without my rings.
Shame of how far I can reach without the sparkle of these imaginary items.
Their presence is blinding for a reason.
My cloak thickens, graphing itself to my skin. I need these extra layers. My whole being becomes the same consistency of my ancestor's tusk. They look upon themselves, looking upon themselves. There is no need to celebrate.
Training wheels evaporated, when I was let go. Never got that chance to feel the persistent tug of trust. Left with pre-conceived digits to reconfigure some sort of social economic identity that matches the worth of my head and heart's intestines.
Excellence tortured, surrounded by nothings, on a speeding backwards conveyor, as I race toward successful versions of myself. What things will come? No one will cower.
The chopping block's mouth is watering. The infinite stretch of blades have it out for my jugular. I can't help but to reflect my shiny magnetism. Even though everyone is wearing their gosh darn shades, They seem to always think I am one of them. I don't want to be.
A fragemented spectrum of a random crowd of tourist flock toward a filthy, soul-less street of the forgotten. They are one with city's kalediscope.
A non-intentional search of pain, I seek the freedom of your danger. I'll lick it up in the shadows staring at your photo, wishing some I knew wore similar shoes.