There are nights, so vacant and hushed, I can feel the texture of my tattered moving within me. Black tar, dripping, sticky and thick. A soft, slow secretion of indifference slopping through the hollow suit I use as a body.
They say these are the of a damaged mind.
But not I. To me, is insurgency.
I used to dream of being inside the womb. Fetal universe, black holes and emptiness. Orbiting the planet of my mother's booming heart. Tiny yolk body, tethered like an astronaut, adrift in the tranquil spume of desolate bliss. Tiny fingers inching from chubby stems, reaching for that great thumping whoosh of blood and power that wobbles like a snarling god above me. My fibrous head, translucent as a bell jar, would search with great staring eyes deep into the godless dark for a light, for a sign, for anything other than indifference. But the universe would never oblige.
Look upon me: a of a child and a monster.
Frozen without cold, feeling nothing, unsure, uninspired, veins of air, soul fading into the umbra.
Who are they to say what is when they are broken? Who are they to say about us?
All this, all this, And I want to And leave but dust
To To To
Strangled by a Belt Strangled by a Bible Strangled by a Belt Strangled by a Belt Strangled by a Belt by a Bible Belt