So, I'm a sympathetic.
But I've decided-
Sympathy is reckless.
A virtue; punishable.
Look at the kind of behavior that it influences.
I've decided to finally judge books by their covers,
or at least, take notice of how shoddy their binding is--
or at the very least, close the book at that exact moment of realization-hmm...some important pages are missing...
I've decided with the abolishment of
tangled telephone wire-I will
never again coil myself around
someone else's despair.
And I will continue to bear the burden of
transjudgementalism- sans my
unique however, "warped" viewpoint of
what I think cute and friendly are.
-and what "fuckable" is.
What is it about sympathy
that causes the big turnaround,
the initial one.
-that "ah-ha!" moment
like they've struck oil
and then turn crude.
Years of spilling over,
and trickling down,
and painting the floor,
and just wallowing there
like a puddle?
-oh those poor children,
we'll call them men for the moment,
hound-dog you, the second turn around-
3 circles before sitting at your feet,
when they realize they are not
a fraction of what you are.
Even though you are just a fraction
Even though you are just collected
doll-parts that makes a girl:
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...