1425.

So much of who we
are is propped up like nothing
more than skin. Empty.

1424.

Discordant wishes
that ignore the hope of stars
to just see the fall.

1423.

I will probably
die never understanding
what the word love means.

1422.

Your words mimed out as
solace are instead just an
art of slow murder.

1421.

An imbalanced scale
always set to teetering.
Lost security.

1420.

Futility in
skin, dressed up like empty husks
of coupling. Marriage.

1419.

This refrain always
set to repeat. Weary of
an endless process.