Wednesday, January 11, 2012
I have squandered all my promise on a pocket full of promises – all eyes ingest & now my own leg doesn't belong to me. It falls off like sick scenes from a night plague boor paste. Resonating pain until it goes away. But it isn't enough. It is never enough. My arm is full promises I can't keep. I lob it off like a distant memory. Bury it next to my pets. Slither into the window. I ask my own mother to box me. She complies. My eyes feel like they don't belong to me. My eyes feel like they belong to themselves. They lob me off. Nails in my earlobes till I can't imagine who I am. I am all imagination. I am all. I am.
you can tell an ideologue by the uneven distibution of their rage
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