Crippled Tournaments

I keep the bracelet in an M&M guy pouch. The necklace could be anywhere. Once the smoke is gone there's no telling where the fire once lived.

It's interesting the gifts we give to prove the things we never can. Even if they're true.

He had that new car smell again. Even though his car wasn't. It could've been his cologne, but I couldn't recall him ever having worn. That might've been just something old I'd forgotten the scent of.

Platitudes with all their rifles armed. Still every shell has its own signature. Unique point of entry. Unnamed abstract of splatter.

The only thing they all have in common is their proclivity toward the use of red.

As it wheedles the horizon into letting it show through again.

One button undone. And there I am. Shucking dead oysters for pearls long ago stolen.

If we could be what we want we'd be too perfect. And when we be just what we are the same results in an uglier package.

I know the rules. I have the ability. But this trophy is not what I want.

Every day is game seven. But all I want is to lose.

Why won't they let me?