|You Are Not A Tree
Author: deefective PM
I be road-kill, slut.Rated: Fiction T - English - Spiritual - Words: 241 - Reviews: 13 - Favs: 2 - Published: 07-18-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2829817
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I've got a skin disease; monster in the closet under me.
I see hot pink sperm swimming out to get me, always
out to get me to keel over and die or cry. I be road-kill,
slut. Starving on an empty stomach for the chance to
find the right way. It is right under my nose, inside of
the nails that live in my toes but who knows what she's
saying when she prays? On my knees in a congregation,
holy heathen. Heaven? In the name of – ACHOOOOOOO!
Bless me, bless me but don't test me. Please don't. Get
these bugs away, mosquito bites sting and I wish I had
more time to figure out if the whole shebang was worth
it. Sense? Does it make me see around the fact that it's
not about the books or the rap song verses, it's about
the feeling, the thunder, the lightning and the –spark!–
Fire in your belly, fire in your mouth! Spit it out! Spit it out!
But don't touch my arm. You badger my mood and leave my
questions unanswered. But then again, where were we?
Oh, I see. We're done here. Don't come here, I'm embarrassed.
Ces barbouillages sont confusing and I'm not sure if I want to be.
Haha, just kidding? I need some deliverance delivering delivery.
1. "Ces barbouillages sont..." = "These scribbles are..."