I.
It’s not about truth. It is about faith. An orientation where the future has cult status. This brand of dislocation has been exalted to attract maximum anticipation.
II.
keeper of promises
a prophetic mothering
finally overcome, the sun pushes the moon to perform
III.
Our bodies warm with use.
Your eyes close in respect.
Private consumption whetted.
IV.
This is my origin: he celebrated our birth with strangers while she bled alone. As romantic as it may sound, this is not an apology.
“Pale with the secret war of feeling.” — Charlotte Brönte
If there is something you need to say
say it now. We all have a way of moving
ever so gradually to our respective corners.
Misfortune finds the deserving; a symbiotic betrayal.
Extractive in nature, asking for what you want exceeds
loyalty. Linear in scope, this practice is my liberation.
Lips seek softness.
Teeth form defense.
What are the standard deviations of love?
Light’s capacity is to fill darkness.
Protect me from what I have learned.
May all justice be transformative.
At the end of the day
desire always wins.
Tender hooks of undulation.
