Utah is a bubble
And Rosario (Argentina) is the cigarette **** of Satan himself
Everything sacred burns
to the ground in this city, and it all started when the moths started to come out in the daytime.
They aren't afraid anymore.
The skeletal souls of men sense us in the streets, their scrawny hands ***** for reality through the haze--
But I'm not what they think. There is no price tag, no label, no packet of instructions- I am the very convincing candy wrapper with nothing inside (and there is an emptiness that swallows me up like a cough drop when the strangers tell me I'm beautiful)
Life doesn't come with golden tickets or rewind buttons
(I've sewed so many into my sweaters just to watch them unthread themselves and leave my soul gaping open again)
I imagine myself (in the end) trying to cover my existence with the filthy rags that remain of my life
By their fruits ye shall know them, but I prefer vegetables.
... Am I going to Hell?