collections 5:13

steel wool on skin is like lipstick on your collar, stingingmy skin like my left hand mosquito bites covered in menthol- the same sweet chill that coats my lungs. cough once for uncomfortability and twice for cancer, but never split your lips in front of me or i might be forced to split it for you. burgendy slipping down your lips and over your chin, and if you had a beard, you'd have a face clot for all the soaking you'd be doing. but that's a story for boys with pajama pants that depict tasteless cartoons- not the political shit in twentieth century newspapers, and because it's political it's inevitably shit on its own. i'm a bigot against boys in sleep trousers and will make an effort to put them to sleep for good, if they don't so do it on their own by succumbing to their pathetic wants and needs- open another window because it's about to get cold in hell. so suffocate like the rest of us and call me a hypocrite for forcing my ideas upon you for forcing your winter upon my flesh, flesh that's left prickled by needle like blades scissoring their way into my disaster. girls are nicer times anyway and i'll help you clearcoat your lime green nailpolish that reminds me of emeralds and reminds you of kermit or cartoons or obsenities. girls don't shout about pride because they no better and have smarter souls, ones that know which battles to take and which weapons to bring to a fight. you got the guns, i've got the sword on the shelf with a chipped bed that has ruined too many afternoons by cutting ties that will inevitably slip into the abyss of my forgotten past. thank god for forgiveness or i wouldn't get along with anyone- ill intentions too often get the best of us and mine are the rainy season- ill nino, with the emphasis on the ill because the nino isn't important enough to be translated.

fiction's my stronger suit.
是你讓我沒有了遺憾