The aptitude for holding back the erratic limbs of the defenseless by bending their frequency toward reckoning makes her a dream. A dream is a death wish inverted. She makes you want to live. #metoo. A dream is a rambling valley full of the horrors and obscenities lurking within your personal utopia, bitter and rogue and forgiven. If it’s so perfect there why are you wrecking it with the diversion that you are. If the clues are unsettled agonies and euphoric grooves against the daggers of looking whose sight are you testing with the blind man you said you love. Why is there a towel in the flowers. My hands don’t fit around his neck but they fit around his reckless cock like cloaks and lords, so there. And there. He won’t even give up dairy when I tell him it’s why he can’t breathe. Not just the police, though they have an ivory green hand in it not just the open fist I render round his adam in a dream, his means of telling his subconscious he wants to survive he wants to be punished he wants an assassin as if he’s earned anything so generous. He wants an accomplice. Maafa : as dreamed up as the god in machine. She’s a dream of his dream of her dreaming a promise that sleep is long gone as the stars flaunt and fawn the darkness for admitting to them. We are not, never have been secrets. Not even when we see killing and saving as the same heathen in them. Not even when we break a man into a god just to prove god is dead again. And the devil he invented is so emotional about himself as we go on being his most honest mirror. A man who can’t really be evil can’t really be good. A woman too. Do you believe that?
