Motion-sickness in the head,
with so much of that pretty-girl dread—
it’s in the way you handled me
that makes things so fucking unbearable
but still…I try to be friends.
You are the marrow of the story.
You once loved me in the morning.
Do you now regret having told me?
The once lush forest of our hallowed love
has become barren, and I’m sorry.
Nothing stops me or him.
He creeps around my ground like a ghost—a ghost in waiting.