Begging you to wait for a minute by the wall where your creeping feet have never been before

I didn't think regressing so much was even possible, I am surrealism. My knees have begun to buckle. Atmospheres and layers consume. Swallowing me whole and if I cross my fingers, they will spit out just the bones. Jelly bones. Tire wastes. Blood thinners. I do not deserve your perfect rows of white enamel, or your lanky stature, certainly not the words stemmed from years of pouring over books. No one knows how to communicate anymore, pick up the phone tell me about your brittle bones. Tell me about your scandalous lackluster friends, oh wait you only make contact when you want to complain. But I am moving backwards, my feet slipping up in the wax floors I slide down the halls, regress, suppress, repress. Some city scape, I'm not easily impressed. the pressure and the feeling as if walls are moving in closer. Flickering candles, wind, graphite pencils and a painting of produce. Dark hair, dark eyes, moccasins for shoes. Idealism, I will not you let in. Realism. Age, numbers, secrets, organs. It's my tennis's shoes fault.