inxthexpinesx's profile

I am empty, or full. I am sucked dry. Unable to believe the I've went this long under the radar Nobody sounded the alarm. I am filled with the thickest apprehension. Cannot believe that I'm okay, you're okay, and we're both okay with me. Can you keep a secret? Will you sell out? Beyond this leather sleeve is a child in a house with ears and malice and spite. This is where my detachment comes from.

I am starving. Throwing up hydrochloric acid dreams into wastebaskets lined with poetry. I am thirsty. Desert weasel dog tongue lapping up pools of black tar ink. I bleed black and white and am re(a)d all-over. I've got an armoured think tank, and enough creativity tariffs to stay in business. I am a poet beyond the lengths of security reality, and time.

Electrical compulsion conducted so naturally from lips to soul. Tongues lashing, sparring. Bloodthirsty, ravenous birds echo an ancient, wailing song both desperate and intoxicating. Making shapes like delicate, breathing flowers, and sounds like Rabid, hungry wolves. Silence; ecstatic, or fully alive. Gaining momentum, magnetism, and empathy. Losing gravity, ground, and enthalpy. Feeling stark, naked warmth pulsing through my static, writhing body. Lightning strikes wild and urgent like cra...

On the brink of shady, sour simplicity. Digging tunnels in the black earth, but never feeling dirty. Scouring my salty, shallow skin, but never getting clean. Drought. Sterile, static land. Dry, dirty thirst. Belly full of sand Lizards, and snakes, and scavenging beasts run rampant and fully alive. Claws, and talons, and tines converge at a nervous, pulsing point and shave instances of sanity off my scalp. The desert is still killing me.

Getting my act together. Acting as I should, as I'm told, as I would if any of this were real; if I were a college student; made for the career world. Made for the city. Manhattan boyfriend. Freelance journalist. Traveller. Renaissance woman. Cultured intellectual. Poet. Lover. Female. Adult. Human. Actor.