I'm really sick. Like ***** is going to come out of my mouth-- an eruption of **** from my ears is due. I've laid too long dormant and one by one the hot spots of my petty jealousy, indignation, and mistrust are at boiling points: The Ring of Fire, they call it. Yellowstone I'm the ******* Yellowstone caldera. The great rim, ****** up and blister scarred, knock-kneed from falling out of bed in nightmares, weird from the predisposition to volcanic shittiness (not in a romantic way) but none the less active, or reactive.
This vexation is as old as grinding plates. This repulsion is as old as the poisoning of Aristotle
My head is the Spartan scythe because I'm a new sign in an old world. I use old signs to poison this newly dug well between us But not well can I keep this message banner ******* billboard to myself. So let me just wrap the code from ear to ear, in plain text where you can see the cypher: **** your red dress.
You see, those blisters are the gravity between White Dwarves pulling at skin, and earth, and ending thrown halfway across the universe. I knew I'd seen you before, there at the edge of the Oort Cloud where we tell people we just met: I stopped eating I was hurt once I was ugly too and no one was really listening. You and the rest of our red dresses meant too little.
But still then why do you whine over the hungry, and hurt, and ugly and spit in my face for being there at the Edge, and for loving the thrill in listlessness, the passion in mundanity? And that ******* about the shallowness of victims?
You didn’t learn a thing traveling and trusting and falling out of beds. Your drunken honesty is your sober lack of layers. This isn’t a far reach of space, your torn dress and cork heels won't work here. Don’t bring that littleness here, you're the only one not really listening now.