Sunday, 15 February 2015

Taking Your Crown to Town

He looks at me through sullen half sunk eyelids. Blaming me for every single thing that I currently feel guilty for. It's possible he's asleep. It's possible his eyes have leaked from his unconscious skull, detached themselves and begun operating under their own volition. How many blinks before it all goes black? How many seconds will you suffer, or will you not suffer at all? I find it quite unappealing - all this savagery. The untold agonies. The atrocities, which we sweep under the rug so children don't didder and wet their beds.

I think I'll use you as a cup, a ball, or a mask, the options are vast.

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