the blurred line between daydreams and malicious plotting;

I am God, creating in years not days. a procrastinating God.

ironically blessed is he, the dissociative identity, the disorder vessel who walks the jackal forest as an ascetic.

a race to the Superior Olive to see who can tell on who first

all mitochondria inherited are from the mother. without the maid, you have no power.

even wearing another man’s plain black shirt feels like wearing your clothes

the two halves of me partitioned in this flesh vessel by the semi-permeable membrane of grief, the exchange only allowed when facilitated by alcohol.

dewdrops on your soft pink petals gave the impression of suckers; the kind on writhing octopus tentacles waiting to drag anyone down to the ocean depths to strangle and play hangman with. but my eyes misguide me.

Sagittarian sworn sellswords are torn towards treacherous tendencies and a mask for make-believe blending. they burn down barnyards and dirt fields for gratuitous grieving and flesh-fueled cravings;