Lunacy made plain in the echoes. Three years discarded Insistent scratching at the window by the ghosts of long gone pets. Bruised wombs birthing the perpetuation of broken people. The dribble of old age as an afterthought. And as a trophy. Like the shiny value of silver in a synthetic-tangle junkyard. A hole in my soul. Once sutured with secrets, now slowly worried into a yawning void. One that can never be satiated with any amount of sundaes. Or Sundays.
1:56 p.m. - 2021-06-11
Recent entries:
An Education with Fused Bowls of Blood - 2021-06-24
Caramelization and Hail - 2021-06-24
Of Late Arrivals at Falltails - 2021-06-24
On Not Being Alone - 2021-06-17
Head Cleaning - 2021-06-17
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