Piss Off. Period.

My head is a pile of rotten trimmings, waiting to be defiled by dog’s piss.

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I am a being of feeling, with unwanted thoughts that entice my body to communicate, to hum to the rhythm of a beat I don’t, can’t, won’t follow. Can’t I scream? Dance this out, wriggle from my suit so I’m just a wrinkled mess skulking into my home alone? Alas! It finds me. That fair thing that is so wanton to many, it maims me. I cannot rip it from me, it has caught me when I am most frail. This is no mortal wound; it is a hook scratching at my ribs for entry. I daren’t let it puncture me, I daren’t leave it space to see me. But it is so hard, the mind dressing up ideas making the skin quiver and the blood pulse with the vivacity of being caught on a high. I am all blushes, shrinking, falling. Now I am at the threshold, barely able to turn the knob. A lick at the lips, a shuddering breath, a tickle forward and-

The door opens; I am no longer the person I was. I drift in, arms shackled in rope. One is sanguine, the colour of passion, the other blue: woeful, bleak. This is it. A part in euphoria: Oh grand thoughts, satisfy my fancy. It is real! It is true! It must be so- this imagination ardent with love! Oh what a glorious feeling to feel! But oh how the change dispels the image- you are blind. You are a child. Remember this is your weakness! Don’t be duped by your own senselessness. Be the better woman!

Conjectures, denials, appraisals… it’s all a cluster. The shell, the one we lost, it returns little by little, but not before we deliver the final blow; deep within the hook remains, gnawing at the flesh. It is bile, bitter but caustic.

Feel me, it cries. Feed me, it squeals. Satisfy me, it wails.

But I can’t.

I can’t.

So piss off.

Period.

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