I trust no one reads this anymore.

I hear the whistles still
And these hearts crack open
We traded lines of Das Racist back and forth

Um, I trip
Over words still
I've, um

There is the feeling of
Terror and tin, soft metal
Melting, liquid boiling
Rolling
In my stomach

I can't tell
Which words to put together
It's either
Mistake or misunderstanding

I didn't know then what I know now
Which is funny
Since it has all been there this whole time
Who knows, um
Hiding
Um...

Please meet me at the cliffs in the summer
Or the Row
Sham
Bow
Library

For stuffed french toast

Um... I've...

This, of all, is the worst type of sound so far.
Because it's stuck in my lungs.