q: what parts of yourself do you dislike?
a: even when I’m on my best behavior, them, the other parts of me, don’t believe. they jump to my defense, those other parts, the ones that act as if I’m precious prefer me in the confines of a pocket. I am gloom and sunshine in the contradictory séance of whatever you ask the sky for. we throw away our trash on a curb and expect miracles to simmer in our crinkled hands. hot supple merchandise we swallow in an instant, we poke and expect death to never reach us. conspiracies feel better than admitting the default; you are clueless. I am guilty of pretending I know something, or some things, or things that some don’t. I claim hypocrisy and hate the imperfect tapping of knuckles on a bare chest. always me, never me, it is a noose tightened and aroused. a sweet tonguing doesn’t do the trick, my mind is still unfucked, unclean.