There are nights, so vacant and hushed, I can feel the of my tattered soul 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.
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. 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.
upon me: a daughter of a child and a monster.
Frozen without cold, feeling nothing, unsure, uninspired, veins full of air, fading into the umbra.
Who are they to say what is moral when are broken? Who are to say anything about us?
All this, all this, And I to sledgehammer And leave nothing but
To To To
Strangled by a Bible Strangled by a Belt by a Bible Belt Strangled by a Bible Strangled by a Bible Strangled by a Belt