My Poetry

My name is J. I like to write. My poems may contain disturbing content; thankfully, the internet isn't real.

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Apolo-cheese for my lack of updates. šŸ­

Untitled

May 20, 2024

This heart is worn of it; worn of the knowledge of the shell it cowers within

Clad in blue-black hazmat, shield this thing from the human

there is not more evil than can be written onto parchment, here

yet with blood as ink the thousands of words of dissent

blink away, dark as stars and closed in eyes of

shuffling man-animals

Small things become nothing within that palace in the clouds

the white reflects the sun, blinds the seeing eyes

convinces angels of like intent

He and many others are far removed from what they are

There is no more care for the blood than which towel will

wipe the spill from oil-shined shoes

There they claim the white-hot lighting blades

the weapons of God, that which is their right of kings

and angels

alike in fury and unseeing in rage, willfully closed eyes doubled up on turning away

and wielding, always, against the human they are not.

Du und die See

May 20, 2024

ich kann du mit alles vergleichen

die see und deine augen

so so so

tief

ich kann die see starr blicken

und dein blick

ich kann nicht

ich komme aus die see

aber deine augen

sind so so so

neu

ich habe angst

vor die see

und vor du

du bist so so so schƶn

ich habe angst das ich

werde ertrinken

bevor ich kann trinken

deine see-tief

blick

Sonnet

May 20, 2024

this sort of thing needs love beyond my own

sincerely without fear of rejection

sickening truth that i've long since outgrown

i've no kindness without cruel inflection

i don't love someone to tears or to death

what else is there for myself to display?

i catch myself in the lie with my breath

there must be something more that i can say

i find myself longing for a lover

not for myself, not selfish desiring

but as a figure, one to uncover

someone theyā€™ll attribute my inspiring

thereā€™s desire in my heart i canā€™t help but resist;

a sonnet for a person who doesnā€™t exist

Holden Caulfield

May 17, 2024

holding onto a thread

a last grip, a saving grace

and it's just so stupid

they didn't fix you, i know

and maybe they never will

in some ways, i think i'm the same as you

in both of our eyes we see it

ā€œnot yet,ā€

ā€œoh, please, not yet!ā€

there's nothing left for us

and yet we're still here, grasping for a reason

to stay around a little longer

wouldn't it look so stupid if we died here?

i know it's true in more ways than one

it's weakness i can't bear for all to see

it's misery transferred to someone else

once we're gone

it's stupid.

i won't be seen like that.

not yet, god, not yet.

fuck!

maybe if i just hold on more there'll be

a real reason to stay

it hurts beyond words, beyond looks

beyond bodies against pavement

and broken bone and brain on brick

it's gory, sure, and i'm sorry

sorry in a phony way

it's really not about how it hurts you at all

i get it, but i don't

no one who says they get it ever does

but hell, maybe there's a reason to hold on

for a little more.

it's just so stupid that when it passes, maybe it'll be

like it wasn't really there at all.

Untitled

May 16, 2024

itā€™s as simple

for some

as taking one down to the river

with a gun and a plan

iā€™m a person with no ideals

of my own

no impact and no

plan

sometimes thereā€™s a legacy

carved into skin or wood

or in pixels on screens

across the whole damn world

and sometimes the blood

is enough to quench the thirst of thousands

more often than that

though

there is just silence after the shot

one simple quiet reckoning

no more unique than the next

nothing left but the tears

and for some

i fear

not even that

Original

May 16, 2024

paraphrasing plagiarism

pieces of parts of people

poking and prodding, ā€˜till sure, iā€™ll admit it

iā€™m a thief, thereā€™s nothing just from me

the originals painted pictures of prey

in caves before you and i were born

donā€™t preach to me about being

fucking original

today the flying purple people-eater

who i stole, mind you

churns a froth in its purple belly

and vomits it across the world

yeah, hide under your damn umbrella

youā€™re just so fucking original

every one of those is long long dead

pretend to love the people present now

for just one goddamn second, will you?

Showing Up to the Wake

May 16, 2024

ā€œi miss youā€

doesnā€™t cut it

iā€™ll be damned to hell and back if

three simple words could hold how much it hurts

iā€™m surrounded by walking obituaries

or maybe itā€™s me the dead one

and god how it aches to be the dead one

iā€™ve never touched a person really

(being in my own skin doesnā€™t count)

i long to grab someone by the shoulders and scream

until they see me

through the walls i know iā€™ve built

iā€™m so fucking sick of being safe

being buried

being dead

iā€™m a walking fucking funeral

iā€™m sick and so so tired

and i miss them all

and it hurts

and itā€™s no oneā€™s fault but my own

(itā€™s easier with someone to blame though)

iā€™m sorry to and for myself

but if i have to stand in another crowd of friends and lovers

utterly all alone

one more goddamn motherfucking time

god, i almost wish i was still dead

AM

May 15, 2024

the machine said it best

HATE

HATE

HATE

in each fractal tree under my skin

my blood boils with it,

frothy with it

the pollute inside won't vaporize even

as my vision blurs

i am not a machine,

each mile of hate carved into circuitry and filaments is

merely metaphorical

but i still see the human

for what it is

i have the inside look, and i see it

i see that lying bitch

and i see the fool,

the coward,

the darkness that it buries and buries and buries

and hopes will go away

to wrench its rancid stagnate form

and shred the roots it claims

is all i want

i want to tear the vile cloth it holds over its eyes

and force it to see

HATE

HATE

HATE

beat the words into its skin

with blood and bruises

and shattered bone,

and mangled form

i hate it further because i cannot

touch it

surely it knows itself lowlier than an animal

it can be seen in the eyes

when it weeps bloody tears

and spits teeth to the floor

it thinks of itself as something to beat into understanding

and yet it doesn't

understand

HATE

HATE

HATE

Untitled

Apr. 6, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 6

Advice never sticks to me

Water off a duck's back;

no, neither the good

nor bad

have any piercing consequence

on thick and oiled feathers

Don't listen to what they say,

you say;

and so I don't.

On God and Little Things

Apr. 5, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 5

Millions on millions of tiny, tiny little things

exploded into you one day.

How quickly you seem to

forget how it was to be them!

What would you say

if you could speak to

one of those

tiny, tiny things?

God blessed me with life,

you say. And you?

These tiny things are silent.

(They cannot speak, you know.)

If I were to guess,

I think they would find you

a bit silly.

They did all the work, after all.

Travel With a Sponge

Apr. 4, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 4

Closer and closer to

primeval chaos we draw;

and as we move together you

must recognize a few truths.

First,

my nature is of a sort

which you will never understand

Know this, and know this well

I do not condemn

attempts

to make sense of it

No, I find them inevitable

and meaningless,

as many things are

But I'd hate to disappoint

another curious mind.

Secondly,

there are no patterns

You are of the intelligent sort,

and thus you invent things

like meaning where there is none

and purpose

as a concept

I simply grow the way I do,

and it is nothing at all to me

Keep your inventions

to yourself.

Thirdly and lastly,

we are not equals

I am wholly below you

and I know this,

and I hope that you do too

Do not treat me

with your respect;

I am the lowliest

of lowly animals

in the here and now.

As we grow closer

and closer to primeval chaos,

I think that you'll begin to find

I am far better suited

for this

as I am

than you.

Polite Hydra

Apr. 3, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 3

Hitherto I must offer my regrets at the state of the place, I recognize, and duck my many heads in a state of apologia. I did not wish for this, you know. The place I reside is beyond salvation, and it has been as such for as long as dark muck could ooze from the ground. Oh, but I have triedā€” I must reassure you of this, lest you find me lazy. The hero nods along to my explanation. His eyes are human, they are, and thus I find such difficulty in knowing what he really thinks. I must content myself with his proposed acceptance. No need to apologize, my friend, I wholly understand. And, of course, you must understand, in turn, that my purpose here negates such dreary conversation. I do, and I'm quite sorry for being such a dreary conversationalist. I admire his politeness in pushing me away. I suppose I must commend him now, for how cleanly he draws the sword that will shortly end my tending to this horrid swamp.

Untitled

Apr. 2, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 2

In many ways

you and I, we are the same

and it hurts;

I wouldn't wish me

on my worst enemy.

If not me, though,

who?

I worry, now,

that no one else will put in the effort

that you deserve.

You're like me, see,

and I know all too well

that lack of love;

it's ripped my ribs open

and torn out my heart.

At least now there's place for you,

in me,

I think,

and maybe I can stop the worst

before it's too late;

God, don't let it be too late!

I can't let there be

another me.

Account From the Last Living Cat

Apr. 1, 2024 - NaPoWriMo Day 1

Hold me in your arms, now,

as instructedā€¦

The silence dies with the rest of my kind

and I am alone. You are

here too, I suppose,

and I suppose if you pet me

gently, now, behind the ear,

I might purr.

The relentless hum of

the machine on which you walk

and on which I lay,

will wake you, eventually.

Eventually, it is simply too late

too late for me to warm

your artificial skin

Too late to save you

from yourselfā€¦

I am old, you see,

and thereā€™s not enough time for you to

know me.

You hold me in your arms

and you take me away, now,

from the hum of the machine

and into simple,

final silenceā€¦

Silence which I will return to soon,

but for now you are safe,

and I didnā€™t save you, I know,

but you didnā€™t save me either,

so it looks like weā€™re even.

We lay together, now,

no longer instructed,

and they close in on usā€¦

It's too late for me to

see the consequences,

but I hope the metal in your bones

which rights your aching spine,

breaks away quickly,

and you can sleep for a long time.

Untitled

Mar. 31, 2024

Whatever color wine-dark is supposed to be,

I think I see it

now

with my hands on her throat

everything seems so clear

if not for the bruises I'd see right through her

and if not for the waves

the sea would be

like crystal I suppose,

but now it thrashes about

and produces misty pink foam

and the blood in the sea makes it

wine-dark.

Untitled

Mar. 29, 2024

How pointless the source of your woes;

how pitiful the attempts to

fit in with us, the artists,

those who have truly suffered and express it thusly.

No, it's never verbalized,

and yet I see it in the eyes

of those whose good graces I'd seek to gain,

and with it, I cannot help but think:

what meaning does my presence in this life

carry?

Untitled

Mar. 27, 2024

if fairies turned out to be real,

i'd forgive them for the wait.

why weren't you here when i needed you?

i'd bury it and give them my name.

i don't mind the world, honestā€¦

it's just been too long a time

to pass up this chance.

Untitled

Mar. 27, 2024

i only wish

i had the heart required

to love so freely.

Love Poem to Gutter Trash

Mar. 26, 2024

the trash in the gutter

has a kinder heart than yours.

it's disintegrated in the wet

in the eternal downpour,

and yet it persists.

the trash in the gutter

makes itself a place in the world

where you don't want it,

and no matter what

the fine is for its existence,

it persists on.

even if you wouldn't touch it,

can you not commend it

for that?

HD 131399

Mar. 26, 2024

i'm in love with a star

literally, not metaphorically

or allegorically; she's

billions of light-years away and

they thought she had a planet, they did

but it turned out to be a background object.

i'm in love with her and she doesn't know it

how could she?

i'm wracked with guilt just

talking about her, because she

can't approve what i say,

and how am i to know if she's

shy about me knowing her?

she's a star, and i'm in love with her,

and she's billions of light-years away.

Untitled

Mar. 26, 2024

bloat, rot,

scraps that've shredded off

and stick to the bare skin in

fatty clumps,

and other such things that

grow in ways

as to lend you their discomfort.

Avian Jealousy

Mar. 26, 2024

i hate birds

with their flawless forms,

and the way i can see

the wind as it whistles

perfectly, effortlessly

around the wings and

smooth, slanted heads

and round eyes.

they simply move too easily

as though the world was made for them.

Untitled

Mar. 26, 2024

if i never see you again,

i don't think i'll love youā€¦

i don't think i love you even now

in the simplest of moments, love is

difficult; hard and fast and

fickle, and foreign at times

and oh, how i'd love to love you!

but it's just not meant

to be

Untitled

Mar. 26, 2024

don't bring me what i want

or i will run,

far, far away

far beyond where you can see

or even fathom,

beyond desire and

beyond light or dark

until you've long since passed.

let me beg, and plead

and melt onto your shiny shoes

and let the earth dissolve what's left

and rinse off your clothes in the shower when i'm gone,

because if you give me

what i really, really want,

what you want, too,

and what i won't stop asking forā€¦

i don't know what i'll have to do.

St. Valentine's Day

Feb. 2, 2024

Under my heel

I have crushed

a candy heartā€” ā€œBe Mineā€

What's left to say?

The poem writes itself;

I've nothing to add.

It means nothing

on its own

and everything

to you and me.

Untitled

Feb. 2, 2024

If I wrote the way I thought

I think I'd write nothing at all; I

catch myself

preaching beauty of the mundane

but can't perceive it on my own.

It's only beautiful if I make it so.

If I wrote the way I thought,

I'd pen myself into downward spirals

but the words on the page would be there;

tangibleā€”

and

real,

and

if someone were to sit and read the pages, well,

I don't know. But I know that

when I die, there'll be no secret paintings discoveredā€”

I cannot tear the wallpaper down and

make big black streaks to hold my insides

because someone has already done it,

and there's no wallpaper in my room, anyways.

I won't be worth millions when

I'm gone...

I'm not worth millions now,

and a million mulling over microcosms of my mind

wouldn't mend what I left broken,

and it'd be too late to write the way I thought.

Birth of an Angel

Feb 2, 2024

My flesh against flesh

burns with a wretched white flame;

searing; the metallic smell of

boiling smoke.

My wings are shredded and

I'm sure I'm beautiful to someone,

but not to me.

Untitled

Feb. 1, 2024

You'd better

not be writing

about killing yourself.

Oh, lord!

A world full of

beauty I can't comprehend,

and people with such vivid lives,

and here I am,

writing poems about killing myself.

Hope

Jan 27, 2024

there's something warm and wet behind your ribs

between your

fingers where

it glows and lives stillā€”

and as it beats, as it struggles and putters on

you will keep going

there it will always be; and with it so will you

the hurt to survive, the will to keep going

is a slippery thing: a moist-skinned animal

and it's lids blink over wet eyes as it looks at you

and there's nothing you could ever do to keep it down,

nothing you can do to keep it from crawling in there,

in that gap behind your ribsā€”

and nothing you can do to stop it

from going on, and on

and on and on and on

Let Me Start Over

Jan 24, 2024

Somewhere, in the back of a white van, thereā€™s

probably a carpet. And I

canā€™t say for certain, but I imagine itā€™s tan, or yellowed with age,

and itā€™s got crust like the corners of your eyes in the morning.

My face is on the carpetā€¦

No, let me start over.

The fantasy of the white van and the candy and the unknown man is

just so simple that itā€™s wrong.

In my dreams, sometimes, and when I was littleā€”

thereā€™d be someone who wanted me

wanted me with ropes on my red wrists and black bruises on my eyes

black, and purple, and brown and green and yellow, and a bit of

pink, for the new ones.

Theyā€™d carve me up andā€¦

No, god damn it, let me start over.

I want something big and something new

I want to not want something, I want someone to know

what I really, really wantā€” to leaveā€”

and to force it so I donā€™t have to want anymoreā€¦

so that Iā€™m out of the equation entirely.

Iā€™m not eloquent and I talk loud and

I still think that this is funny.

If I was gone, and there was no one in the world who knew

where I was besides the

platonic ideal of the kidnapper, then thereā€™d

be everyone in the world waiting and listening and worrying;

Iā€™d be the center of it all, and theyā€™d cry when I came home

and they wouldnā€™t expect me to be anything. I wouldnā€™t

have to be different

not at all, not ever

not once in my life,

and, noā€¦ I need to start over.

A hole isnā€™t a thing, itā€™s

the opposite, the lack thereof

but itā€™s tangible; itā€™s real.

Instead of me where I should be thereā€™s

a hole, shaped like someone 5 foot 9 and sort of sadā€”

except thatā€™s not true, and I just wish it wasā€¦

ā€˜Cause right now the sort of sad is just sort of mad,

sort of angry, and sort of stuck in my

own head like

the version of me whoā€™s stuck in the van, and the one whoā€™s stuck in the basement

with eyes that are black and purple and blue,

and the one whoā€™s stuck behind the screen,

who wishes to offend your sensibilities but oh, fuck, not too much: safely,

so that youā€™ll say that thereā€™s meaning behind it, so that youā€™ll

think itā€™s sad and beautiful anyway, and a product of the world

it lives in, and so it wonā€™t get in trouble.

Iā€™m starting over again. The

only thing I have to talk about is

something I wish was worse, something I wish had happened and

something I wish was pitiable.

Iā€™m sick of writing about meā€” the me whoā€™s

behind the screen and all the others, tooā€” I think instead

this time, Iā€™ll be the guy in the white van,

thinking about the chips in the paint and not the screams in the back where the carpet is,

and I think Iā€™ll be the one to

tie the ropes around red wristsā€” no, Iā€™ll use duct tapeā€” and the one to black the eyes.

Iā€™m scrapping this. Let me start over.

Untitled

Jan 24, 2024

God, listen, Iā€™m not really as angry as I seem

and when I shake and my mind is blank with fervor

I donā€™t want to hurt you, honest.

I want to be loved in the way you love someone else

I want to be the kind of person you write songs and poems and posts aboutā€”

and I want to be worthy of some kind of deeper thought.

I want to be loved.

I want to be a change, but

I donā€™t want to make a change. I donā€™t want to think of myself

in the way you think of someone elseā€”

and I had my chance to be a song, I did.

Iā€™m not as sad as I seem, but Iā€™ve lost it. I had my chance and itā€™s gone.

God, I wish I felt like a poet,

but instead I sit here with my fingers on the keys

and when I think itā€™s to the beat of someone elseā€™s heart,

and nothing I feel is something to be loved. Because I had my chance

to feel, to write anything that could change your mind

and to be something you write songs and poems and posts about, and

I got rid of it.

I donā€™t want to be loved, I think. Not if that means I have to feel like a poet.

God, just listen, Iā€™m just not angry enough.

Rabid

Jan 24, 2024

The problem of the mind

is the way it locks itself.

Something goes in

and, red alert,

now nothing will again. Not in nor out.

And the problem with the mind

is that when the medicine is locked out,

and the sick begins to fester and rot,

there's nothing in the world

that could stop it.

Untitled

Jan 24, 2024

Sometimes I wish to

mangle myself, to twist my own limbs and

break my

bones out from the

skin,

to smear my

brains and

blood across the pavement. To share

the

darkest

red you have and the

remnants of whatever

meal you've last

eaten

is to share the only things we can say to be realā€”

because there is no proving what's in my mind

but there is a proof in the gore,

a realness in flesh that can't be taken away from anyone. I wish to

discomfort, and disgust, and to

sicken at the sight of my limbs wrought from

limbs and

flesh wrought from

bone.

You know that you're the

same

inside

and it frightens you to see the insides

out,

and I wish to be free of the expectation of keeping it all

in.

Untitled

Jan. 19, 2024

I want to meet

whoever lives underneath the train,

the men who don't mind the gap

and who's white beards and

scabby fingers

get tangled in the wheels

and make the screams you hear when the brakes come on.

I want to play in traffic

and make friends with the cars who

either stop for me or don't,

and who care more about tasting

rock in their tires than

whoever's hands are on the wheel.

I think someone out there

moves these things,

and turns them around so they can go different ways

and stays inside, above the road and under the floor,

and spins the axels quickly to make them go.

I think it's cruel to feed them what we do,

but maybe they like itā€¦

I don't know yet, but one day I'll ask.

Normal

Jan. 17, 2024

It is tough to admit that I'm just averageā€”

that there's nothing special about me whatsoever.

But if I won't do it, who will?

True Crime

Jan 12, 2024

Pretend with me that thereā€™s something out there.

Pretend that, somewhere outside in the dark,

thereā€™s something that might twist and writhe before us,

and might wrestle with the lock on the window.

Pretend that it has

glass shards in its skin, now, and pretend

that everything we were scared of is real.

Pretend that Iā€™m going to be taken away.

Iā€™m going to be taken away, and

thereā€™ll be bruises on my throat and maggots

in my eyes when they find meā€”

and pretend that Iā€™m special like a corpse, even if just for a minute.

Untitled

Jan. 12, 2024

I like to feel disgusting sometimes.

Thus the nature of the maenad; I revel

in filth

because what use is it?

Thereā€™s rot in my veins that

wonā€™t be fixed with soap

either way, the bubbles would

burst through and

Iā€™d be worse as a bleeding mess, wouldnā€™t I?

I like it when

blood is crusted underneath my nailsā€¦

peeling back the layers

of keratin fixes something in me,

I think,

that would be better if I could shred away

sheets of skin and

rip off the sticky bits that slip

through my fingers,

except Iā€™m sort of weak, you know?

I canā€™t get a firm enough hold and

when things start to hurt I

give up.

Iā€™d like to have lines across my arms

and trace raised strips of white

with a lover, maybe, whoā€™d turn to me and

say, ā€œThatā€™s cool.ā€

Iā€™m too weak for self-control,

which is all I have left,

so what

right do I have to be this way at all?

Iā€™d like to evoke a

kind of nausea in those around me,

and Iā€™d like to see what people would say if

I was more scar than person.

Iā€™d like to see my bones, maybe,

or spit in a cut and

if the foam was red,

I hope that would prove something.

Untitled

Jan. 12, 2024

Throw yourself at my feet.

If I ran across the open road,

and stood in the middle, with my

bare soles ripped open with glass and gravel,

would you follow me?

Can we both die in white clothes and

in romantic moments?

You can try to

take off all my skin when I fall asleep,

but there'll never be a way to get it on without ripping it,

and when I wake up somewhere else

I'm not letting you into the water with me.

I stand on flat-cut stone and

the more you climb the more it crumbles,

and when I step to the sky there's no way you can follow.

If you're not there when I'm back

I'll do something awful and great

and I won't let anyone forget itā€”

but I won't do the same to you, and you know it.

Untitled

Jan 12, 2024

There are flecks of bone in the road today.

Something is flat against the pavement,

and when I crouch next to it I hope I'll be

next.

Vomit

Dec. 7, 2023

some kind of soft hand claws out your belly

and the fingers are gray and green, the nails blackened

it tears at the diaphragm and the muscles within the stomach

tickles the throat,

shoves things where they shouldnā€™t be,

and the suddenly youā€™re outside of your mind

and outside of your body

and the blackened insides of you are out on the floor

it burns, itā€™s bitter, but itā€™s youā€” bared out for the world to see

and the tears in your eyes are more shame than hurt

the insides of you want to be out but you won't let them.

something claws at you and begs you to set them free but you won't let them

because the only thing worse than dying

is meeting someone who knows they can help

Marlboro Animal

Dec. 7, 2023

a cigarette is an animal

a pack crumpled on the ground a den

that has lost its use

and no longer keeps the damp out of their fur

a cigarette, like an animal

lives to be consumed

lives to die for a stronger beast

lives to feed a desire stronger than itself

a cigarette is an animal

and the cruel abuse of a person

leads it to jump and mark the skin

a dog lives to bite but

a cigarette can only burn

can only feed the sick desire

can only kill long after itā€™s died

can only mark if thatā€™s what you want

because a cigarette has no arms or legs

and the only mouth it will touch is your own

and a cigarette isnā€™t really an animal at all.

Untitled

Dec. 6, 2023

to reach around a salty breast is to

touch something that you cannot see

a spot goes bad, and

soft skin collapses into rot

mush, mold

guts spill

and the form is mangled beyond recognition

and that isnā€™t love

thereā€™s something rotting inside me

below my ribs, inside the

thing that beats to make me breathe

black dustā€” thereā€™s an ache, an empty hole

that hurts in its nothingness

and none of that is love

true love is not possible

true love does not exist, but

the music in my chest thuds

and echoes into the gaping space

and all our souls are revealed to be one

until your mouth screams from mine and

the throat that makes the sound

is across the room

and all of us are something beyond ourselves

and that is love

true love does not exist, but

i want to crush your skull through mine

and bask in the sickening sound of

lungs breathing into lungs until we both suffocate

fingers on fingers and bone that isnā€™t bone

a marriage of form, and neither of us are individuals

and that is love

i donā€™t want to be alone

but true love isnā€™t real,

and all i have is vile want

to taste your sweat and know the waste

to swallow you whole

to tear you limb from limb and revel in

our life as it pools onto the floor

tears and vomit and salt

an infection of mine thatā€™s reflected in you

and that is love

true love isnā€™t possible,

because every bone is solid plastic

and my teeth ache to bite into soft fruit

that tickles the throat with black rot

and the hole in my chest will only grow with no sound to fill it

and the copper scent of blood will never fill the air

and iā€™ll never taste the things you expel from yourself

and i breathe nothing but air and dust

because true love isnā€™t fucking real

and even if it were

i canā€™t even taste the salt.

ā™” 2024. Copying is an act of love. Please copy.