Chrystal buzzing in the lights, they shake
when cars go by, or if something heavy
drops upstairs. Dry rotting tires
attached to rusted axles spinning furiously
around nothing.
They consider themselves trapped
in a pointless orbit because of how
they feel when they look at themselves.
Digging in to what begins to leave the
faintest marks.
Everything is an attack that they wish
they could take back always seeing
how it ends but never finishes.
Spitting on those who try to dictate
they preach back with words exactly
like the hillsides.
They pay attention but it slips
and they never take the hits,
but they deserve them and they know it.
Oh, they know.
Hillsides
Teleporting Typewriter 