monkeybutt

sombre night. i'm on the bed. the cure are on the stereo. raining all day. intrepid explorers, we did our laundry in the rain. there is good in the world, scott otto. this is what she said. this is what she whispered with soft dark lips and platonic ease. the ghosts are only sheets on chairbacks, or shadows, fading, on sepia tinted afternoons. darkness. empty spaces. spaces no longer inhabited by the bitter faces and sour tongues of those people who once created me. they plucked me from my free and joyous childhood, thrust me into their killjar, smiling evilly like faraway stars. the poison was hatred, fear, self-loathing.

the creators destroy. they know no other way. it is their fashion.