Even if I run out of water I
can still waste light years plotting our ruin with pruning shears.
We being beings who shed our skin daily
Sometimes during the violet hour to dine
On paint thinner and praise temporary faces.

Everyday I can see the cruelty
Ahead of the light wanting
To believe in infinite time.
Everyday we would find ways
To love rough in waves.
A fine slumber interrupted by
Questionable stretches of anxiety
Found in hospital waiting rooms, tolerable doom as
Courseless as a coin-operated horse.

—–
Vanessa Willoughby (@book_nerd212) is a writer and editor. Her bylines have appeared on but are not limited to: The Toast, The Hairpin, Hazlitt, Vice, Bitch, Bookslut, and Split Lip Magazine. She is Creative Director at Winter Tangerine. She blogs at http://www.my-strangefruit.tumblr.com.