If we can forgive what has been done to us . . .
If we can forgive what we’ve done to others . . .
If we can leave all of our stories behind. Our being
villians or victims.
Only then can we maybe rescue the world.
But we still sit here, waiting to be saved. While we’re
still victims, hoping to be discovered while we suffer.
You melt and swell at that moment. For that moment, nothing matters. Look up at the stars and you’re gone. Not your luggage. Nothing matters. Not your bad breath. The windows are dark outside and the horns are blaring around you. The headlights are flashing high and low and high in your face, and you will never have to go to work again.
A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.
…and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.
She’d exchanged her dreams of her parents for the dogma of her instructors, but neither of those outlooks were innately her own.
Every family is a regular little cult.
So if reality is all a spell, and you don’t really want what you think you want… If you have no free will. You don’t really know what you know. You don’t really love who you only think you love. What do you have left to live for?
What you don’t learn in art theory is how too big a compliment can hurt more than a slap to the face.
I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut hosing orgasm.
Me, personally, I tell dude 137 how I’m adding an embossed slogan to my dildos. Cast in high-relief going around the base, it’s going to say, “The Dick That Killed Cassie Wright…” On the thickest part, so if you twist it the letters of the writing stimulate the clit.