Everyone I know is made of dust. That’s what I used to know.

i caught two people in my room again

staring at the walls

that’s been happening

a lot or more

at least.

Someone tells me I should

stop painting

the end of the world

across the plaster hoping

that it will break out

and consume me

but that isn’t really

why I paint the catastrophes

and I’m not really meaning

to say that it can’t

last. Sometimes, I even

think you’re

beautiful when you look

at the ceiling and say

you see cracks.

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