Is she? Bipolar?
Me? Bipolar…oh no…I think I might be…manic though
But she’s off-kilter.
Her got PTSD in our bloodstream like mRNA in these Sweet tooth babies’ formula.
I think I’m going to cross a line. There is chalk dust everywhere. Yellow tape yellow tape
The hood is lit as fxck. Gunshots, gunshots sky high lighting up the ethers like fireworks over the harbor at the colonial’s fourth of July. Bitchhhhhh— there are Rats in the garbage cans, big ol rats in the trap. Cats on awnings vying for a fight anytime a night. You trying to scrap? Or naw…I think you should be good. You wanna race me? Pass Andromeda, take a lap or two around Nebula chasing the baddies out of Pleiades, slide by Quasar hitting a Dobby laced with Ayahuasca hanging out the sunroof of the droptop UFO, no helmets, yelling “fxck cyber 12”, swing a left or a right hop a comet pop a jinn with a gamma ray, hit a couple donuts in a black hole see if we spin out?
Ok. We might be.
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