this is hell and we were wrong. i died that night. i took those pills and woke up in this awekward world. of hollow mountains. and bent knives. the tremor of god resonating. . like club music long after everyone has stopped dancing.
i was mistaken. dying is not freedom.
constipated gods shit us out. at their leisure. and the whim of fleshy laxatives. the stench of faith is acrid and ambivalent. like lonely dogs left to their soil in the darkness. all shadows. no light..
god she assumes must be something grand. more than fraying dresses or half solved jogsaw puzzles can quantify. god surely must be a whisper. the tickle of breath that wakens her throat to live. god surely must be, the panic of skin that urges her to touch him. and cautious her to forget.
the hours like needles. the moments like thread. orphans sewing. with bricks. a parable of victims erupting in her chest. small lies ripening beyond her intent. a fever of touch speculating. pm jjoles already dug.
the end of the world in fractured fangs and bitten tongues. skin like a portal. send us back..