this rash is fixated on my bottom; not an erotic sentiment yet it is sentient
to all the boils that festered and raked in some acute understanding of betrayal—
shall I laugh at your consternation? shall I plead be weary of my errors? shall I love
you? — no, I think for a moment I cannot love so freely and with so much happiness
of some resolute lethargy as before. My annoyance is particularly aimed at your abuse.
You manhandled more than any patriarchy shall for your matriarchy recedes and brandishes
slaps and punches at any criticism; you wished to be a bejeweled emperor and force me
to be ever groveling and kneeling audience even if my bones fails and my knees scald and scarp
you want to be idolised and galvanised as a perfect human as God could ever make — I spit on
your throne and God spits at it too and you, you narcissistic coop pigeon of shameful torment! — you have
no will and no wisp to torture the oppressor that is why my innocence is to be flayed and gutted and
displayed not as a uncensored lamb but as a roasted, half-fucked pig whose gelatin fat drips
and drips into a pork parody. I do not know why you flare and abuse me but I know that I do not
take this so kindly and in kind you must have yourself roasted for abuse is the action that is always
a pig in a shit pile. ▬