Uncomfortable being. Something to skin, compelled by sin, living an
ideology. The theology of strangers; composing hemispheres; bleeding criticisms.
I took the blame. Humanity permitted it. I was the underdog. Against symptoms.
Trying to conquer inclination. With pain and misery raging in a soul. The hurt;
the volume; the mental notebooks; to jot down indiscretion, to mis-fathom the
contempt, to have been a survivor accused of her own trauma. Many microcells.
Much microaggression. Many micro-monsters. The worktable is full. The flashbulbs
are flickering. The electric batteries cost thousands to replace. Slaving and
scratching, the kerosene made edible, the breath like flame and hay. Like eating
cardboard. Like nonstop abuse. Like being haunted by a phantom, a living
entity, a body against the excellence of your hands. The mental elements. The caged freedoms. The
ability to bounce back while it continues to topple, and stumble, and the
blatant address. Damn near speechless. To watch every line. To mind my own
concerns. This proves an issue. Maybe too influential. Maybe the nail on its
head. The grand secret. I must scream it: esoteria is real—it alters life, you
will never see the same!
