@Eisa-Pebble
Ah yes, dating, where—in today’s world—it equivocates to adopting the survival instincts of a corpse flower who has just burst through the floor of a Necrophiliacs Anonymous meeting, rooted in an asylum; whose whole faith weighs upon the shade of an extinct beetle, adoring an illusory salvation—for it uses hope to veil its eyes from their condition of prey; lest forget accepting that our only survival mechanism is that of a pineapple—helpless but in its blood digesting what bit it.
Brain washing, all fresh, yet old warm—comforted, cocooned.
Let me stain it, let the stench of your sweat protrude. Let it struggle and be strained against reasoning, let it clash against reason so much so that not a single speck of cleanliness remains ; your head will have to turn, your washed cogs be used. Your factory clean head, draped in an illusion of comfort shattered by cognition, dialogue and reason. Let’s make of you a head stained with the impurity of doubt, questioning and driven by curiosity seeking—co-naître.
If you are washed then so be it, you will be soiled by the effort of thought. Adversity will be brought, dialogue will be sown.
did not think it possible to be jealous of a take-away coffee
Mes larmes si salées qu’elles me refusent la mort. Une bataille si vaine, avec toi je flotte de joie; sans toi je flotte aussi.
pas un radeau, juste une brindille. Quel pitoyable spectacle.
étouffer — comme si chacune de mes cicatrices s’étaient ramollies pour infiltrer mes poumons, empêcher leur movement naturel, les engluer eux comme le temps. L’agonie lente de ton absence.
Human warmth was so foreign to your touch that your skin upon reaching a dead body—whose only source of broil was putrefaction—conjured up for mirage a hearth.
a moth cursing a candle, except we are both
creating through distance a dark dense enough to muffle my screams, hoping it’ll seep through my lungs and cease their movement
that inevitable mental breakdance under the shower
self-preservation ou le désir d’indifférence.