Even your hands have fingers that desire pointing, that desire making a point. Even you want to know night from day, when it's time to sleep and be awake.
I dance in my own energy, welcoming yours as it pleases, allowing it to leave when it wishes, staying in my own brilliance, leaving you to burn in your own.
What she saw as elegance was, to my eyes, nothing short of macabre. I needed a job, and this limp-haired, twitchy woman had one.
The war is over or is it? Do I know you as a dirty innocent thing yet? A discarded soft child forgotten by your god? A picture frame made of wilted flowers?
We’ve become boxers who bite opponents. We’ve become women who fail to report rape. We’ve become men who piss themselves. This is our common tale of woe.