Back-to-back apologies, stapled to the weeks as bookends. Each regret tethered to the same faulty mouth. A glass jaw wired to a broken brain. The freckles are drawn on, in an unconscious and unironic metaphor. Fewer displays of ribcage then the months in the year and a half of dancing. Watching the Other's Ego protect itself in real time. Like seeing the static of the matrix scramble their eyes, the same as the excessive horizontality of a bad television tube. I can smell the spoilage inside their head. It's time to go, when the afternoon is the end of the day, and the evening is skipped over, entirely.
12:43 a.m. - 2019-07-16
Recent entries:
Succubusted - 2019-07-29
Motel Musings - 2019-07-22
Infernal Progress - 2019-07-22
Petaldrops - 2019-07-22
Back Again - 2019-07-16
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