There are nights, so vacant and hushed, I can feel the texture of my tattered soul within me. Black tar, dripping, sticky and thick. A soft, slow secretion of indifference slopping through the hollow suit I use as a body.
say these are the words 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 massive 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 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 daughter of a and a monster.
Frozen cold, feeling nothing, unsure, uninspired, veins full 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
by a Bible Belt Strangled by a Belt by a Bible Belt Strangled by a Belt Strangled by a Belt Strangled by a Belt