Your edges are dithering,
contaminated with snow.

I can see through
you.

I'm losing something here,
as the days slink by.

I don't even feel
like myself,

not anymore.
Not now,
not here
in this paltry persistence.

Your edges are gaussian,
furred and blurred.

I can see through you.

It's just what
I've been looking for.
It's just what's right.

You'll fade and
I'll hate, all
over again. All
over again. All
over and
over again.

My eyes ain't
what they once were, sure, but
I can't see you
at all anymore.

Not because I'm blind,
you just happen to
tinct.
I'm not blind, you just
happen to
translucere,
one day you're just
gone.

I swear yesterday
You were right here.

You've darkled, and turned gossamer.
You pretty, pretty veil.
These days I guess that
I just don't see too well.

Hands behind your back.
Alternatively, I may allow
self-pleasure.

But no,
I mean,
I love hands in general.

You can learn so much
about someone
from their hands.
How their fingers move,
scars,
and self care.

I like to touch them
with my hands,
hands are the best
for touching.
They're so
innately sensual.

Grabbing, caressing,
pulling, holding,
slapping, knotting up in hair.
Beckoning.
Warding off.

Tickling.

I enjoy
tickling.

Guess what?
People ******* change.

Horse girls.

I think that horse girls
secretly play with,
and caress,
their stallions' *****.

They need that steed seed,
if you catch my drift.

Furthermore I believe
that their shameful fetishization
is intentionally kept hidden behind
a facade of general love and care for animals.

Especially when they say things like
"I care about animals more than people."

Like, *****
no you don't.
You just get wet thinking about big animal ****.
Which is completely fine, just be honest about it.
And, uhh...
Can I watch?