This is the last time I write these kinds of words. This is the last time I give you all the yada yada about questioning my gender identity, and the whole spiel about how I envy women and think I want to be one, and the entire gist about how I don’t and haven’t felt right in this body for a long time. This is the last time I put you through any of that. I ask nothing more of…
Lighting layers of a Vietnam burn-corpse trauma. The echoes of the last time the world was a blazing crisis, and life-or-death was mandatory as a rite of passage and an ode to the country that was boiling with social form and regrets of patriot intrusion. When the Armageddon began again, the world was vaguely stuttered and at the same time ready, and men walked so slowly that they felt like ghosts. The impending day where everyone and no one was dead.
The other side of the falls where blade punctures are not provocative, and penetration is solely murder. Virginal belt covers lapped onto the creek bed, and the increasing realization that carnality is a mere protective measure. That river is no water, but condensed saliva and remnants of birth control. Think Twin Peaks in opposites, clarity instead of mystery, cold instead of smokey, and intercourse transferred from a rite of passage into a necessity to live. Brittany Murphy never should have left us.