That I want to throw my smartphone against the first person
that walks past. That everything I say is a wish for infamy.
That I like being common, for example this mouth of mine.
That I want to crack open a scythe against longstanding edifice.
That it all has force in it, which I don’t know how to undo.
That I’m still a child. That this child is fooling you. That this child
is abstracted away from your analyzing thumb.