my face is full of salt mines with huge deposits in my laugh lines.

my heart lurches forward hopefully and then sinks down hopelessly and so on and so forth. on the 24th, i'm going to see if i can get help. but it's getting bad again. i'm still waiting for the ground to swallow me whole.

give my body to someone who can actually make something of it. let my mind evaporate into destiny.

melting clocks and empirical sighs, time flies as the sun drips down my thighs. i'm talking about swinging mailboxes, scattered birds, and the tense moment after honest words. lips can kiss, lie, and crack. when the wrong person walks in, is alright to make them laugh? but i don't need you to stay. and when you pull away, you won't find anything but slack. 

licking scoops of anxiety as the tide rolls through my stomach. there are some ideas that make me fall through clouds and trace lines around motionless feelings. this investigation has no suspect. there is only melodrama created by my build-a-hell and pre-apologies. whispering "this isn't me, this is a rough draft" and hoping for validation. but i know your approval won't make me work any harder. it's a little boost through the atmosphere but the stars aren't something anyone should count on. smart men say that success is desperation. but what is the rate of conversion between objectivity and subjectivity?