I can't write a thing without crying anymore

without sobbing from the depths of my brain or my something
to make up for feeling things and not the right things. THE RIGHT ONE IS RIGHT FOR YOU. I can't get rid of machine parts. These are the things that belong somewhere (and the emphasis is such on belong) they belooong. Unlike a hair, shed. A bitten off nail. Some toothpick. Machine parts are not trash they are someone's lost implement that will be reattached. I will be reattached in my next planned out something. I will attach and reattach myself and eventually learn asexual reproduction. Become anemone or starfish. If only you could always stroke me I'd grow.