#mxsunmi

       to own, possess; might life ever be written with tears? to let the sweat of hands, writing and have been written, let a layer of self-loathing surface the skin with a mixture of grime and ill will. to be born of woman, disrupted by man, tend to by the sky and nurtured on soil. to let the world's old tears wash away while i continue a process that, overtime, grows itself a mold of disdain. it is important to realize insensitivity fill a comfortable void from where empathy used to lie.

       and so, he writes.        calmly, he recites those met with his heart onto paper, folded into a journal. there is a weight, uplifted from his shoulders during the sitting, pondering, wondrous aftermaths of execution. one that exceeds the meaning of violation, although never crosses the value of proficiency. he remembers the losing tinges of coffee, stuck to the roof of his mouth. his eyes hang low among the clouds settling into the late of day. there is a glare of which is fingers struggle to set down the pen, ease its ink-ridden point to relax. rashly, did he shove his face into his hands, now pallid from a day's wash of white soap.

       the journal closes shut. snatching the goods, he rises to his feet with the wind behind his back.

       time plummels on his watch when he travels a short journey to the home of the witch. he arrives on her doorstep, knuckles lifted to commence his arrival. he then thinks of the commodities.

       (hunting. thrill running, surge impacting. calm. tranquil. tearing the mischievous of their wings off and searing their weepy eyes dried. the clearing of breathing. an end to their retaliation, the plea for their end designed as fate. peel them parched of their liberty to toy and humor. playful mockery tiring themselves weak. staple the wings clean, unsoiled. bind their legs into one, care for the unusual merchandise as they once lived small boned.)

       in his ears, lives their heartbeats.