The intricacies of silence. The futility of regret. When art becomes a science. Your existence is a history of violence. My story is not worthy of reading, but it is worth writing. You are actually very pretty, it's just bad lighting.
All of the sinners will be struck by bolts of lightning and stuck to the ceiling's plaster; all around every town will resound the laughter of The Church.
Forgive yourself Father for you are a liar and you never gave birth to me or anybody. We are not your sons, we are most assuredly not your daughters. There is no next of kin. There exists no next of kin.
Unceremonious sacrilege. Editing the Seven Sacraments. Blasphemy with perfect timing. I could never keep a beat but you beat me regardless of this.
The concept of perfection is imperfect. I am simultaneously the criminal and the suspect, the jury, the judge, and the verdict.
A hearse being pulled over by a police vehicle for speeding.
The agony of remembering every single drink or purse left on top of a car's roof as it pulls away into darkness. The agony of every loose tooth- wanting to stay, to remain, in the comfort of gums but being pulled away anyway. Being forcibly extricated nonetheless.
To bleed in a heap on dirty, sordid shag carpet. Burn marks on your heart; a singed dress; cigarette holes in an abandoned mattress. The last stick in a batch of matches. Picking poisonous spikes of cactus from our shins while the fingernail sliver of silver moon just watches and grins in the distance that is infinite.
All of the sinners will be struck by bolts of lightning and stuck to the ceiling's plaster; all around every town will resound the laughter of The Church.
Forgive yourself Father for you are a liar and you never gave birth to me or anybody. We are not your sons, we are most assuredly not your daughters. There is no next of kin. There exists no next of kin.
Unceremonious sacrilege. Editing the Seven Sacraments. Blasphemy with perfect timing. I could never keep a beat but you beat me regardless of this.
The concept of perfection is imperfect. I am simultaneously the criminal and the suspect, the jury, the judge, and the verdict.
A hearse being pulled over by a police vehicle for speeding.
The agony of remembering every single drink or purse left on top of a car's roof as it pulls away into darkness. The agony of every loose tooth- wanting to stay, to remain, in the comfort of gums but being pulled away anyway. Being forcibly extricated nonetheless.
To bleed in a heap on dirty, sordid shag carpet. Burn marks on your heart; a singed dress; cigarette holes in an abandoned mattress. The last stick in a batch of matches. Picking poisonous spikes of cactus from our shins while the fingernail sliver of silver moon just watches and grins in the distance that is infinite.
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