The homesickening smells of the bread factory turn the short drive home epic. At a red light, the driver's face (flashed with whitelight/whitelight/whitelight) reveals a lifetime of long-sleeved covered bruises.
New mothers use no discretion. Their breasts teeming with milk, they need to feed.
Dandelions use no discretion. Their seeds flying into unkempt places, insisting on thriving. They need to grow.
When I speak, I will use no discretion. My words disrobing your alleys and darkened rooms, awakening your deepest regrets.