I can see the cracks in the walls. Paper-thin and starred with the promises of ruptures.
I seek cover from inevitability.
The sibilance of shorn silence shears my ears. Every slicing shard a memory that opens fleshwounds of ecstasy. I bandage my wounds with electrical tape and practiced hands. I remove glass splinters with focus of knife and knuckle.
These cuts are deeper, this time; they must be, to feel through the scar-tissue.
The heavy cost of a years-worth of stillness shattered: ringing eardrums; revitalized lust.
10:31 p.m. - 2015-03-11
Recent entries:
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