Chairlift’s Bruises humming inside the head all week long. Cells repulsing below and above membranes. All whites to yellows turning brown, gray, black-and-blue. Inferno placed around feet, flames scorching knees. Reds leaking, us withstanding the aches, eyes catching me writhing. Misplaced analgesics. Goodbyes bequeathed here and there, to the favourite pieces of belongings. We feed trashes with gore. Tastes of sands linger.
We lack of presences and sentences. I am constrained by the pledge of no longer whimpering. Words of resentment go back to throat. I am incapable of throwing up those words consisted of blame and wrath. Lives go on behind and in between, occurrences take places somewhere around, our diurnal lists persist. I demand questions, perhaps woefully-admitted attentiveness, perhaps not. Eyes survive the damp and dry over and over, refraining from physical bruises. Lone wee hours spent awake and shuddering, over wishes of awareness.
Why should these–
why should you?