"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love." - 1 John 4:18
a maladjusted little minstrel, rage focused in the pinnacle least invincible principle of my environment, so biblical i'm ti-red of the rituals habitual to assimilating individuals like our voices and choices and self-importance, all cyclical
does your infallible tongue feel hungry and porous like your horrid torpid fond memory abhorrence the grossly ****** and unnatural discordance the inorganic and unfactual that came before us the dissident power of your bodies' diction in a chorus
swear i'm fine, it's just your eyes, inflected with disinfected distance a forest of imbellished distrust, derealized with disinterest making me feel like my lungs are full of fumigated insects and that's fine, i swear, trust me, i don't need to convince you of this i don't want to climb into your mouth and wrestle the truth out i want to go home smelling of wine and pass out on the couch and your actions are latent, this is stupidly freudian stop treating me like a ******* patient, you're supposed to be my friend
coughing up horrible insincerities meant to be favoring stop and listen to yourself giving your secrets away, wavering like a white bible page ripped from the spine of glue on your mouth, you gave in, balancing on the edge of a risky display disobeying social conventions and being made prey again today
you’ve got dictionaries of fiction fidgeting with the infectious insecurity ignition stop and listen and a thesaurus that can’t arm you with the proper vowel consonant friction to out-enamor their derision when you pout as you fit the description never feeling completely comfortable in someone else's kitchen i wish you would scream and shout but you just keep playing cards now wish you’d unlock but it stops between your lips slow scowl swallowing your tongue, the key, he cut out when you kissed not hateful but afraid afraid to let it out, ‘kid’ afraid the words would fit too much like a slit smile on a spit afraid they would just flow like this
an unspoken conviction for viscious fulfillments and dereliction of indiscriminate sauve depictions of riches of addictions to princesses and affinity for infinitely angering insistence of what she represses expected on the table in an instant
the constriction of the snake in her belly makes ******* and planning things seem insanely oppressive she was getting too old for things to be like this but they all like it that way this is why she hates yelling and kissing always the same old merry go round
you say poet as if it means perfect when i know enough people with the bruises to show it to realize it really means nervous and i have nothing to show see except the mosquitoes who ****** my blood and would be delighted to tell you what ugly things they know about me