the empty threats of little lord

Losing teeth, losing hair, both always coming out in my hands. I feel like I'm half way through this, then I think again, and then I think again. Look back, check it, check back again. Stopping myself is like wrenching a welder, his arms full of steel Rebars piled up like logs of wood, away from an Arc magnet from Hunan province: a slow struggle, eyes averting all shiny surfaces and panes of glass, back to the wall, head in hands. And yet I keep waking up from my dreams with empty hands.