Unfinished

I search higher and still all I am confronted with is garlic mayonnaise and a jumble of vowels that mean nothing to me other than a book I once bought as a gift during a festival that has no significance to my own personal wellbeing or, as far as I can tell, anyone else's.
Purple barriers jump up and down and still, do not, move, so many layers purple onions, purple beds purple... jackets, envelopes...
You should probably start there. Probably, because it's fixed somewhere but not here and not in my head. I am putting each broken nail in line according to size and weight and then if they are exactly the same, their serrated edge. Whether they cut to the quick and tongued the only white pain I've ever seen, just, lying there waiting to be ripped. Because they catch in door frames, you see. Door frames can be right little shits if you let them. I've seen all sorts of people, all times and places, they'll see one and run back to their mothers.
So once they're lined up I stand them up, lean them up against each other and it feels like one of those lucid dreams, one of those internal balloon itch feelings, everything expanding and suddenly shrinking so small it makes your skin crawl to imagine it. Torment, my friends, need not break a cell. Let me tell you that. It's the tiny things that upset me. Balloons blowing up and up, they're harmless. Now nails. You must build them into little houses.
I'm lonely, but I hated how your mouth looked in the dark. Gaping hole, raping even everything that wasn't there, sprang fangs and swallowed me whole.