Not solid

In sips and starts

I feel more human

Am I human?

I mean

I got food

It’s in a box

I apologize

To my food

I hate

Being in a box

Yet

I love

Being ingested

Am I food?

Am I human?

Is lunch real

Or a societal construct

Created

So you will conform

To an 8 hour workday

If lunch

Is liquid

Are you bucking the system

Or feeding it your soul?

I live in the gayborhood. For pride month, they repainted the lines (There are rainbows painted at the intersections). It got me thinking. Should I repaint my lines? What lines do I cross, or not cross, that I should reevaluate? There is magic in renewal. Is there not? What if I cross lines I should stop crossing, and cross lines I should have been exploring why they even fucking exist in the first place? What if lines that were faded, could be repainted, and everyone would see something new? What if I saw something new? What if I saw you?

aka Blair Witch Project III (the lost film)

The blood red moon foretold great evil in the woods that night. With fire in their hearts they set up camp. More specifically, Lady Prose set-up camp to the soundtrack of the Flame Lord's clickety clacking on the keyboard. Click clack. Click clack. Clickety clack. Click clack. The slightly off-beat rhythm of a white man. Figures he would type like he dances.

She shook the smile from her lips but couldn't keep the shine out of her eyes. "Flame Lord, I summon you to the fire pit!" Click clack. Click clack. Clickety clack. Crackety crack. Although he was shrouded in darkness, that last crackety crack betrayed his approach. "Yes milady?"

"Start the fire, won't you?"

"It won't keep the beast away, you know."

"I'm not scared of any beast. I have some poetry I would like to burn. Also, I have some marshmallows."

"How big do you want it?"

"As big as you can get it." The Flame Lord swallowed his "that's what she said" and proceeded to build the fire. Lady Prose wandered over to the typewriter and let her fingers dance over the keys. Before she knew it, she had a new poem to burn.

Suddenly, the woods became eerily silent. The fire crackled and the night air picked up and began to howl around her, though nary a leaf rustled. A purple bucket was placed at her feet. TheWolfeDen. Of course. Lady Prose caught the glint of the guillotine blade in the firelight and immediately knew she was not going to be invited to brunch next.

The wind shifted and revealed the presence of putski, thePearl and Shells ready to witness the execution. "Any final words?" TheWolfeDen intoned in strangely sultry timbre.

"Let me just change into something more comfortable."

The systematic

Raping

Of my soul

Left me

More than alive

But less

Than whole

And sometimes

When I explore

The depth

Of my fracture

I realize

It was never

Wholeness

I was seeking

It was the severance

Of my being

A schism

So complete

Looking back

Would be

Like reading

Someone else's story

The visceral reaction

To trauma

Gone

The nightmares

Gone

The guilt

The shame

Those cornerstones

Of my eternal

Hell

Gone

Just

Poof

And all

That would remain

Is this little frame

A new foundation

And quiet

Admiration

Of the half of me

Which wasn't ruined

If ever

You catch

The tear

I allow

To escape

From the corner

Of my eye

I guess you're my catch

Except

If you try

To touch me

It's most likely

I'll hit you

So

Goodluckwiththat

Burn

Scald

Drive acidic rivulets down the interior of my orbital bone

For what

So you don't know

Don't see

The sadness in Mee

You're so pretty

They say

So sweet

They say

Unable

From there

To comprehend

The depths

Of my malcontent

Yet there's a "fuck you"

In every smile

A "fuck you"

In every nod

A "fuck you"

In every acquiescent word

That spills forth

From my mouth

Because the only truth

Is that

Which I allow to live

Through paper

My words

Here

I share with you

The shattered few

Who know enough

To feel Mee

Or stay silent

I hurt

On the in breath

I hurt

On the out breath

So meditation

Can go fuck itself

Yeah

Maybe

I'm not

In the best mood

Go

Read somebody happy

Read yourself happy

Tell me if it works

Does it stop

Being everyone

Else's

Fault

And become

My own?

I'm told

I own

That

Which is not mine

To own

But how do I know

When it feels

Like I

Am the

Key

To my own

Destruction?

I

Am the key

To

My own

Destruction

Sometimes

I go to write

and there’s a fire

in my brain

i can write

and burn to death

or extinguish the fire

and mourn the unwritten

What if

You find yourself

With your name

On my heart

What then?

She loved the feeling of walking away. Everyone exited the train, masses herd to the left, following the siren sound of success. She turned right. To her street. To her home. She still works. But it doesn’t look like it used to. No pantyhose and heels. No bumping elbows or bruised egos that punch harder than a heavyweight boxer. She was so happy about this new world, answering to herself on her own timeline, she never noticed the shadow figure in her periphery. He masked the malice of his intent. Method over mania, he repeated to himself. Method over mania.