7/11 - Men
My mother taught me how to love and my father taught me how to build walls. And now I have a Rapunzel soul - a sparkling love that I want to release out of all my body’s orphices. Long, overgrown hair that I’ll never cut. But above that, a chamber towers around my body like a metal coffin and I can still taste blood after all the sugar I’ve consumed to sweeten my temper. My father lingers in my veins, makes my stomach rumble. Acid and rain - I try to wash away the scars with hot oil and heavy tears but i think it will take a man who loves (like I hope to) in order to really heal me.
I can’t talk about paper anymore. Paper people, paper money, paper love. It all burns or rips or gets blown away in the hurricanes of my mind. I want to write in a language that can only be understood by a reality that is not my own. Because I don’t want reality. I don’t live in reality. I speak in rhetoric and I move my body to music in a way that mimics explosive silence, inner storm.
