T.B.R.
flames lick short hairs until they stand on end like a shock-wave across metropolitan plains; a nuclear bomb in a holy war. the steaks go through the wrists, not the hands. your blasphemous beliefs contain underlying religious connotations, but only until mass. jesus christ was your porcelain saviour as they burnt that cross in the boot-camp courtyard. save yourself! get on that cross and burn away your pain. your fucking martyristic values won't break through this time. fake your tears, fake your cheer, take your fear and fall.