11.20.20
GARFIELD
This was never supposed to be battle.
Never wanted arrows from release, daggers from “let go.”
These words were supposed to be pure and open. Parts of the secrete self agreeing to hug the public.
They’ve made pistols from the fabric of my most mad, most insane.
Pacifists turned target practice.
Scared meerkats heard mirror call them “monsters”. Now they burrow in paper pages, noses twitch with guilt when they poke out from their dirt home. Dirt like un-pure, like un-polished, like un-refined, un-pretty.
Was that the wrong thing to think? Yes of course it was. What they saw wasn’t a release. It was an exorcism.
Detailed and cataloged, they circle back to the bookmarks of the great purge to cover your intentions with the stench and vomit of what was, but was never real.
I’m running out of safe words.