there exists no one for whom the rage is deserving. for two hours i’ve sat pulling these braids out of my hair and working intermittently. each call between has been filled with my direct honesty which never fails to be a slap in the face. when honest there’s no pillow strewn about to absorb my words. i’m speaking from first person while cognizant of their heart, desperately seeking without directly asking for a sincere response. a scream. a fuck off. a what the hell. an anything except silence. but never it fails that my honesty stops a conversation cold in its rusted tracks and i’m left to stew in my perceptions, my ever growing folly of blunt delivery. i grow weak in the taming of tears sewn together to create on my back a cape of nonchalance, a something conceived without lovemaking intended to birth invisibility. don’t look at me after landing with the swift blows of anti-bullshit karate chops to the sound barrier protecting my souls hope. sure i’m lonely but who really gives a fuck. i’m just a metro-goldwyn-mayer mascot who doesn’t understand the power of pause and prowess of power. i’m a runt whose heart follows yellow brick roads that lead to nowhere.

Blog at