Exhuming a long-dead conversation for an autopsy. Bits of moldering anger still clinging to the long-silent syllables. Dredged unceremoniously from a memorygrave. The words painfully recognizable, and bloated with self-indulgence. The only scalpel available is not a precision tool-- sharpened on a years-long inferiority complex. Wincing at the overwhelming scent of bile. Which is to say, rage. Lungs turning septic from the toxicity of familiarity. Eyes clouding over long before I find the answers. Buried again in the back of my mind, with bare hands and filthy fingernails. Covered hastily with layer upon layer of embarrassment.
11:00 p.m. - 2020-07-08
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
Bubblebeams - 2020-11-18
Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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