The weight of the afternoon reduced me into a bag of confusion, confused of my own selfishness. Like a door slowly opening.
I dream none of it.
However every bone that dare exist in my framework says I'm to blame for this self-centeredness.
I'm lucky.
Like a dog who sees his master but failed to see its anger. Getting kicked and ignored for the night, the dog knows that it'll get its next meal tomorrow.
Like hope.
A tiny, disconcerting feeling of possible illusions surrounding the frailties of your heart.
And you bleed.
But that's okay.
You never really knew how it ever was to live down the drain to being high up in the literal mountains of your own capacities.
In solitude.
Your fears eat you and in turn you become rude and incapable, I can't understand cause it was just yesterday when you said "Carpe Diem" and fucking that word up like a 4 yr old kid murdering freshly expensive colouring books for children under age of 16.
Like a sick fuck, stick your tongue out.
I was never yours or you were never mine. Never mind.
sick sick sickening and when i regurgitate i expect myself a new man. Or a woman, with permission I turn myself into a woman. No kid ever has to question something so obviously admired and hated all at the same time in the same century.
In the same fuckingness of our physical distributions, even if it meant you having a vagina but seeing it as a dick instead.
We cum.
From up to down.
Til dawn.
(oh alcohol, remedies for the selfish available after office hours.)
from your afternoon, a portal and a time warp in your nakedness in a dimly lit room.
You filthy little.
You little.
More alcohol please.
