[eg: altered imperative]
to you, i write like dirty, hot, southern summers. my words twist up your legs like swamp creatures, pulling you under, sucking the breath from your trudging, scraping lungs. your brow furrows in concentration and your hands subconsciously push the hair back behind your ears - the hands you use for everything. those hands i'd know better than my own. i want to hold them against my face to see what it might feel like to be held that way. and i imagine it is nice, but not surprising. i am female - i am woman but i am sexless, androgony at its best and worst. don't be fooled by eyelashes painted black, pink cheeks, smooth legs. they are a facade for an unknown reserve of wise knowledge. beyond my years. beyond this place. i see past toxic sunsets. i see the future, and sometimes it feels as unsaturated and bleak as the past. my writing, my gritty rhetoric, does not speak to the masses - but the truth i tell is piercing, and it makes me afraid to show you what i've finished, because it won't leach emotion from the corners of your eyes. sometimes my words leach nothing but patience... and you are growing tired of that. so i guess it's my turn to come to you... and stop with the writing already.