You say
you’ll scrape and it will come to you again like that summer you
always wished would be lost. The ghost was ready to pounce and chew.
“I
don’t like it. I feel like it’s no longer about what I do, but
how I look. That was one of the very things I first set out to rebel
against.”
So she
said, blinking tears from her ever-artistic, noble eyes. Or she could
have just been tearing up from the flash.
How
could I have known? That blue was blackened out by the tint that
blocked out the sun.
Maybe
she never had eyes to begin with.
There
used to be glass pieces to walk on. They carpeted all of that down.
As soon
as they stopped thinking the world went right again. Days aged with
the skin. Expanding plot through otherwise plot-less scenarios.
Making mountains move while no one was watching.
Every
morning, normality would reign.
And
everyone knows we don’t like it. Those fantasies we coddle and
nurture with blood from our teats.
You say
we heal and dreams come true all the time. There are always men
waking up to pigs with butcher knives at their throats and women who
wake up to dead husbands just like they’d always hoped. Reality is
always making switches. Blurring edges. Stiffening girdles.
So you
say.
Dots on
my chest. The noun that verbed its way up to the adjective.
Pretentious
eyebrows thick as your cock, darker than day.
Resolution.
Charming epilogues. Feeling that for once, the mysteries of the world
are known to you. Realizing that it’s all going to be alright.
Hoping
it’s not all another dream.
“More
than anything, I want to reach people, maybe even help them. That’s
what makes all this shallow, masturbatory self-promotion worthwhile.
...Plus, I need the money.”
Cue
laugh-track.
Typical.
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