Monday 24 April 2017

Forgetting How to Breathe on a Fabricated Afternoon

最近ストーカーがいます。気をつけてね。

Again I find myself buried in the dirt. Did I dig this hole while I was sleeping? The weight on my chest makes it hard to breathe, and I think, I'm breaking, again. Too many commas? I'm out of breath. Barely awake during the day, I slip away unnoticed and lose the knowledge of how one breathes: in and out, in and out and out and out and out...

Dragged through the streets, what is there to be hurt about, when silk robes have already turned into bare skin? Go on, paint my naked body with insults and the colours of your void. For me, there is nothing left to bear, and my acquiescence simply reflects the will to love I once had-- you cannot break an empty shell with piercing arrows aimed at the heart.

Chocolate suits me not.

The dresses I wear remind me of the burden expectations place. I spread the ashes of beauty upon my shoulders in hopes that I am not seen past the capitalistic illusion that I wear. If this is all but real, then why should I hope to become rooted in the lies of a fabricated afternoon? The permanence of such reveries lives on in the heart that yearns, where the veins of reality are severed. Truth, in all it's circumstances, is turned away by the weak, and the listless strong who have lost all reason.

The bitterness of chocolate suits me not.

Bring me to a flowering field and I will kiss the very first petal that grazes my flushed cheeks.


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