My torso is a bloated corpse flower. Razor thorn bone spurs. Pollinated cancer lymph nodes. Snapped stamen ligaments and weeping petal abscesses. No amount of sun, or water, or care can stop the wilting. I was cherished too tightly. Buckling under the saturation of self-made demands. The price of hyper-vigilant care turns out to be the paranoia of inequities. I boil away liver, ribcage and spine in a dirty porcelain tub. No fanfare for wastrels.
12:18 p.m. - 2017-04-24
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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