If gods fumble, if souls are demonic, we ask for accountability.
Never noticed her, tripping out on science, a psyche most delicate, pure sensitivity.
It was hell. It still is. In realizing—such as nothingness.
such
dire dreams, so deep in there, to come across a name, sweet vinegar.
What was it? It was life!
I’ll share a secret: Don’t become focal point of a psyche in pain.
And I noticed it, existence, right?
Certain hunger. Refused in that moment.
Decorated in despair. So dismal those eyes.
So hidden.
Needing more. Left dissatisfied. Plus, proud of it all.
Shocked. Amazed! Angered.
