No need to bash me over the head
with your ideals just to prove
you have a backbone.
I'm squished beneath the details and
damnation that you wield as some
medieval tool of torture.
He wraps himself in buzzwords like resilience and hustle, but I have to wonder if they bring comfort to an empty life.
Spices explode across my tongue, melding with the warm flush of alcohol… A long exhale, eyes at half mast, head tilted in a relaxed lean. And…
Twelve birds perched on the power line, twittering over news that used to be secrets, teetering on the edge of gossip and scandal.