Something?

The truth is that we are both drunken doctors scrambling, operating with rusty scalpels. I am building on shaky ground. Fault-lines for homes. All of my skies are grey and smoky from the polluted breath she breathes. And in my Southern Californian sunlight I will bronze over with toughened skin that should never be this thick. My trees may be crooked and sideways, but it only makes them easier to climb. Acid rain is nothing but the sweat of the dead as they run their marathons in the shadows. My soapbox is broken so I will create a new one with discarded bones that I found in my childhood fort. My hidden place, my secret agent lifestyle. And as the rate of change increases I will tuck and tumble down these hills and into the cracks of the Earth. Here I will find home. Here I will find my reflection in the slithering lava. Here I will sleep.