mason jars of sea salt.

i did it. i pushed through walls that were bricked up and violent. waded through thick, dark mud that clung to my legs and threatened to pull me down, pull me down through a curtain of woven gold wool strung between dark green trees in a wood that is blackened and smoky, into a place of permanent night and where tea cups fall as precipitation, smashing their tiny china bones in crusty bird's nests and the hollow places in trees and scattered jagged and delicate through the dewy grass.
why can't you, why can't you stop walk walk walking through that dirty sticky mud, leave a trail of selfish though our lives and loves of lapis lazuli, glass and pure white sand, sickening pink champagne spilling over the walls and trickling in puddles and pools on the ground. you can't do that, you can't do that to people you like, you need to get a grip, grope, grasp on consequences, push all of those heavy laden cartons and boxes tied with string into an old baby carriage, pull on some skeleton keys for clothing, and push push that baby carriage down a hill. let it go, let go and licked honeyed waxy candies from your pockets and stop stop sending envelopes of serpentine sentiments to your friends. ride your bicycle and tie your hair into knots and take a step back, take a kilometre back, take a couple of steps back before you've discovered that hole in the wool of your grey pockets.