Return, return, return.
Withdrawal & rebellion.

Controversy in a pill box.
Thirty three count.

Would you ration out my death please, put me in bed, please, dream with me in paralysis while holding my hand?

I don’t want anything forced.
But the flow between us,
give and take and pulse and throttle;
knowing you might sing tomorrow,
heeding vocal trends and extrapolating the data.

These are my vortices;
my redundancies.


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