**** ‘em as you see ‘em, I don’t know whether to call it feminism or arrogance.
High-def skin rubbing up on love like sandpaper,
False starts to whittle you smooth.
Pause. Take the last drag. I need to get a little closer to death before I finish writing this.
*** is sometimes a mascot for feeling, dancing absurd in false clothing, replacing the mechanics of hard play with attention and the enthusiasm of mob admiration.