Let’s pretend you’re alive enough to read this. The top of my head. Weeks-old snow pulls back to reveal fangs of grass, almost shocking. God is watching us. I’ve had it up to here. Of love, of baby monsters. Lindsay is now a part of my day-time consciousness; like a pillar of room best viewed through a door-jamb. I think of us as baby monsters, flaming with laughter. The staging server. I murmur over cotton in my sleep, flaming with baby laughter; black cats curled around her chest. Do you have any insecurities? Bitch, please.

Today I am playing with chips of tile the color of thoughts, the brute force light of hot cat on nipples.