Slowly, with the feng shui engine in my head, I teach myself to read. The gears, under the skin, within the clouds, laid bare. The separation occurs a single undone thread at a time. Stitchripping the rusted binding inside me. Put there by parents, and society, and shame. Carving myself in small and imprecise swipes of vicissitudes. And yet.
And yet.
Me. Me. I. I. I. Me. I. Me. I. I.
I have never been taught the value of communities. Posterity is a made-up word. Or maybe an obsolete one, archaic and funny-sounding. Too difficult to pronounce with a hyperextended mouth, much less understand.
9:31 a.m. - 2019-11-06
Recent entries:
Sewn Fingers - 2019-11-15
Remorsels - 2019-11-15
Removing Itself - 2019-11-14
Councilhymns - 2019-11-13
Another Broken Trip - 2019-11-06
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