all of this is completely fake. as in, the trees that surround the house don’t actually sway from side to side like mario party 6 minigames
i still play sometimes when i need someone to wrap me tight in their arms and find nobody. i do not look up from my trough—depressed
into cushion of a red chenille sofa—and stare out half a window to find the sunlight dipping below empty boughs, washing treetops in gold
before expiring into duskblue. i have never been kissed, been fucked, or had my heart broken. there is no tension in my shoulders, jaw,
or neck. the body will forget what it has seen, grateful for ignorance for once. i smoked in high school. my parents have a basement.
nat raum is the poet laureate of the void; their corporeal form lives in Baltimore. They’re the author of this book will not save you, random access memory, fruits of the valley, and many others. Find them online at natraum.com or astral projecting inside a Royal Farms.
