& morbid lip biting curiosity leads me to stray into burning cornfields. because who doesn't want to know what the last guy before you she was in love with looks like. & even before i think them i edit the slashy text that climbs out of my teeth. lips & tongue too soft for words, so incisors & sharky row on row get thaumagenic. i think real had about black miracles. but the knots arn't on the rope ladder between out pirate ships. it doesn't matter. that whole gig is goodbye moon. there is no sulfur of smell of belly crawling drakes. just fingernail marks on the inside lid of a coffin. call me fucking dracula. we're back from the fucking dead. hallelujah.
i don't know how i feel about how everyone shrugs & accepts that we're back together, though. i mean, bonnie & clyde, don't get me wrong. but i counted the heiroglyphics in this tomb. we slid together like machinary, but it's gears were oiled with each other's blood. to act as though this was forgone or inevitable is to degrade it. things worked out because we got milliary genius. there ais the syllibant humming of the bee, but the fucker has its stinger. it stung once. but it took soldiers to pick the hypodermic stinger back up & plunge it into our own hearts. what i'm saying is: we fought for this.