I wish I was desirable, a creation of my lust, love and mystery! A Majesty that mountains bow and small children flee. I am miserable and sad. I long for a time without numbers and a clock without minutes. I am overdramatic and uncultured. I want potatoes on my fingers and yams on my toes. My music is my flatulence. I long to pick all the blossoms off the trees, inhaling pollen with each breath: inviting the bees into the pit of my belly, well rounded and pulsating. I would become a commodity, a holy grail among men. They’d stab at my gut, spilling out fresh honey to cup up with their golden chalices.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment