for Julia
she is too busy flirting with the mundane to take notice of you, and yet you would have her anyway. sweet siren, do you hear the honey making a home in your throat? she is powerless to resist. take her in your arms and teach her of her womanhood. you are warm and delicious and whole; let her taste what she is made of. touch her gently and remind her that her world is not so small that it cannot be rocked. if your rage be fire, burn
all this shit to the ground. be an arsonist, sulfurous in your fury. when they tell you that furor is futile, tell them that yours was the back all their motherfucking glory was built on and you will be damned if all this tinder goes to waste. after Abel Meeropol
Will the flesh too burn black after the skin has been removed? Will plasma curdle and teeth flake and lungs bubble and cells burst? Everything has been baptized by inferno yet the trees do not die and their produce does not expire; it's as if they've been planted by streams of ichor. Their gardeners refuse to labor in vain. How is it that even after the fruit has been plucked (or knee revoved or gun reholstered or fists loosened) that there are still those who do not see the fire despite all this smoke? he says
he likes taking care of me. i have blood red mouth, sun stained teeth, i am always hungry for more. "well then. eat." |
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