the world has spun me so many times, my sense of direction has lost all bearing/baring my lost sense of self, to a world of razor blades and lemon juice rainfall

in the heart of ache there are static discharges that skim the edge as spiders lay eggs in all the things that are better left buried beneath heartacres of salted soils of home

i have honed myself into an instrument of divinely imprecise destructions wrapped in declarative statements with thorns coated in earnest poisons

in a world of lemon juice rainfall and razor blades, my lost sense of true self baring/bearings lost in my sense of direction, by a world that gleefully spins me out