from notes

Enigma was the rush

and usually sentiments are my serpent pets.

They don’t have limbs nor joints,

non-proficient in walking,

and certainly they don’t know how to run.

They crawl to me, almost not touching the surface,

and I will perceive their presence only when cloaked in their warm sleaziness.

It will be tender,

scarfed tighter and tighter

in breaths and breaths.

But this time, no.

It came as a healing body,

but maybe without a body at all

the strongest ghost I’ve ever encountered.

It was cutting me with the least sharp object,

a stone that is not the heaviest but the fastest,

like it was made out of wind

that blew through my body, shaking all of my organs.

Like in a car when I put my head out of the window

and the intensity of life is threatening me.

I have so much air in my body

I can never exhale it.

I’m possessed and

your temper is episodic.

I’m folding and wrinkling.