Marionette.

You might call it a chronicle of the past few months. It didn’t turn out anything like I’d hoped. I’ve come to terms with it. I hope it might be well received.

But, what can I do? I couldn’t spread myself out, even if I wanted to. It’s a race and I can’t keep up. The movements are too fast and every move I make seems to be in error. I can’t get over my own hang-ups. I’m sorry. I hang on every word.

a fall so hard to make these old bones split
i don’t know if i can get up, these limbs are useless now
yeah you put me on your gurney, yeah you play a sick joke
surgically severing limbs, while methodically matching all of the nerves
and romantically reattaching again, these movements are no longer my own

Thanks two thousand nine. You’ve been a terrible year. I hope we never run into each other again. If we pass on the street, please, pretend you’re oh ten.

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