(no subject)
I have heard that there is evil inside of us, but never have I seen in it such a concentration as in the compacted sediment of layers and layers of detrimental makeup. But the barred ideal of make-up, it covers too much, so cover your face instead with your hands because no one ever liked being a plain face girl. in a plain faced town, in a plain faced way of life, so there comes the inventions of false suitors. here comes another long armed gentleman to walk you into his well-lit studio apartment, fuck you until blood spurts in hot lashes across the wallpaper, then tell you how artfully you master the tact of masochism. Well, sadism, but I guess when you truly cut someone beyond an incisive manner of speach its a act o masochism as well. Masochism like when a thousand different girls with the same white sin wander around the ponds edge, loooking for their own reflectons and pretending to acknowledge those waiting patiently behind them. waiting for the pond's water to uproar at the candideness of their confessions - they were never like this before, they explain why their captor is away, i've been kept as the truest example of stockholm syndrome by my own hand, and only my own hand. I don't know why I need to be isolated from society, but there's no one there to telll you when white turns to blue, wheen unfeeling turns to love, when ghosts appear to dance around the room in their formerly gay clothing before it was paintest the most cartoonish shade of grey along with the rest of the men who attached a ball and chain around their neck and jumped in. ohhh gooood, the water's fine, you should only taste it when it burns pasts your lips and exits through the holes in your throat, always tasting but never taking it in. Truly, you have felt everything necessary before actually feeling, an image cut and pasted out of a furniture catalog, a seat to sit in but no loveseat to share. Soomewhere in your head you wanted a love of ghosts, to cascade about a room in a symphony of moveable chairs and lies that no one listens to because after death you only remember truth truth truth. You only can feel truth after every hot needle of liveable and corruptible blood has been leased form your body.
Yes i know you'll read this, yes i know you'll write innumberable lines more afterwards, fr the rest of your life, chasing another period down, but you'll never understand how unrequited my love can be. I don't need anything, but the tiniest drop of blood squeezed from a granite and multicolored rock. A strand of hair is too much a confining idea of fidelity, instead to disobey what you're told to think, what you're told defines hypocrisy by the pagans who count the stars in the ocean while standing on their heads. You were and are the truest form of paganism, worshiping idols of escape like its a paper sun that will soon fold in oon itself, like its that arm waiting to wrest you out of your sleep and tae it with you.
escape is in you, escappe yourself, escape your own gravity that pushes your soul back in your body until it pins you by the shoulders and forces it back down your throat. Vomit it up like a piece of truth you can't stand to let sit still in your stomach and absorb into you. Focus on that blank spot in the margin and become that, because you've become every other congealed piece of text mixed in meaning like hydraheads trying to suck their own mouths.
No one's ever read the written word, they just photocopy it.
Yes i know you'll read this, yes i know you'll write innumberable lines more afterwards, fr the rest of your life, chasing another period down, but you'll never understand how unrequited my love can be. I don't need anything, but the tiniest drop of blood squeezed from a granite and multicolored rock. A strand of hair is too much a confining idea of fidelity, instead to disobey what you're told to think, what you're told defines hypocrisy by the pagans who count the stars in the ocean while standing on their heads. You were and are the truest form of paganism, worshiping idols of escape like its a paper sun that will soon fold in oon itself, like its that arm waiting to wrest you out of your sleep and tae it with you.
escape is in you, escappe yourself, escape your own gravity that pushes your soul back in your body until it pins you by the shoulders and forces it back down your throat. Vomit it up like a piece of truth you can't stand to let sit still in your stomach and absorb into you. Focus on that blank spot in the margin and become that, because you've become every other congealed piece of text mixed in meaning like hydraheads trying to suck their own mouths.
No one's ever read the written word, they just photocopy it.