facts are simply perception and something else that i can’t make out amidst their clapping
an intractable desire for back space in a room with no back room
i see you seeing me they say when we lock eyes and i’m glad but i really actually want to say it back and my role as watcher feels calcified as i become extremely perceptive to the micromovemwnts of my face
i want to speak but they get to speak now
i can’t take my eyes off of you

backing up to edges
allowing for ow ouch i’m stuck
slammed smashed squished up against
trying to be lines but the sweat is still there

baby pink walls smudged with hand prints and leg prints
can’t move a limb unless moved by another
contact often begins with a slap
moving kind of slapdash kind of falling kind of stumbling to get to the edges