We are nowhere and it's now.
Is anything ever going to make this less painful? Haha. Not you (or you!), that's for sure.
Everyone is talking about the latest show in town, while I am self-contained with erratic, and weird thoughts about moving razors slicing off my limbs, torso or head. Or of male strangers frolicking outside my room at night, waiting to cut open my throat, and everyone else's. They keep me up all night. At times when I am asleep, I will be pulled into the waking world by a desire to lock my door. How humanely possible is it for one to lock the bad monsters out when they are in one's mind?
Sometimes, I get worked up by surreal visions of me being distracted by the ringing sound of a glass bottle (half-filled with alcohol) being broken, followed by a stranger jealously slashing my cheek, and in turn, for me to forcibly but naturally press my lips against his. In between, I would have worked my way to getting that stray glass piece in his hand -the one still drenched with my blood-, and striding it across his vulnerable cheek. That's love in so many bad ways.
A pretty, and primal gymnastical clockwork orange.
Strangle me, someone. Please.
Everyone is talking about the latest show in town, while I am self-contained with erratic, and weird thoughts about moving razors slicing off my limbs, torso or head. Or of male strangers frolicking outside my room at night, waiting to cut open my throat, and everyone else's. They keep me up all night. At times when I am asleep, I will be pulled into the waking world by a desire to lock my door. How humanely possible is it for one to lock the bad monsters out when they are in one's mind?
Sometimes, I get worked up by surreal visions of me being distracted by the ringing sound of a glass bottle (half-filled with alcohol) being broken, followed by a stranger jealously slashing my cheek, and in turn, for me to forcibly but naturally press my lips against his. In between, I would have worked my way to getting that stray glass piece in his hand -the one still drenched with my blood-, and striding it across his vulnerable cheek. That's love in so many bad ways.
A pretty, and primal gymnastical clockwork orange.
Strangle me, someone. Please.
a dystopian euphoria, or a kafkaesque nightmare?
Posted by
Anonymous |
2:27 PM
How about a kafkaesque euphoria?
Posted by
martha lung |
11:35 AM