Tote

Sometime this season

You'll stop the spiralling

Out of control. The

bristling'll cease.

You'll bless your breath

As it leaves your body,

and you heave 'self to

and fro quietly.

The colours are the

 kind that seep through

The folds they fall,

becoming you.

Drive about town;

a deserted look

Eyebrows that have

been abandoned.

Persisting sulk

Burl won't go away

Acquainting with

a gaggle of freaks.

Last and final call

Grab some empathy

Stuff it down your bra

Proceed to boarding.