A river beneath these bare feet
A coarse surface among the webbed feet of screaming beaks
There is nothing left behind the wings of a broken bird
A theatrical verse is being sung with orange lungs
A splattered oil of apricot tears
There is a gym full of high school hearts waiting for you
A pair of father hands are burning on the stove
A yawning daughter so tired of being 7 at 17
There are no pictures of you, Douglas
A bed with dirty sheets is only slept in so much
A room you never saw is where I sleep every night
There can't be any more of me left for any one
About Me.
- Emma Cherry
- In a yellow sumbarine, Liechtenstein
- We must blend into the choir Sing as static with the whole. We must memorize nine numbers and Deny we have a soul. And in this endless race for property and Privilege to be won. We must run, we must run, we must run.
