Dinner at my mothers was the mental equivalent of a stiff drink. It hits the back of your throat and burns into your blood. A quick shot of something nasty that helps later be slightly better. This has been the final lamb led to slaughter. My skin sings a different pitch. It’s been an interesting year. Many new people, handsome, wan, and thinking. So much is here, in this box. This screen lighting hours of silent clacking conversation. <\/p>\n
The three days are up. “Should I wait for you again? I’m waiting for you still though you’re here now”. He hasn’t answered, though we know the honest reply. There is love, but the desires are hollow. Kissing a simulacrum of a relationship. There is a time for things. Earlier this year, we synced in need, now we do not. It’s simple and clean, offset by the quickness of his smile. We match even now in this. <\/p>\n
My stomach is heavy now, feeling so weighted that I fancy if I were to lie down, I would be able to feel my vertebrae pushing into me from the inside. Each one a jangling note of pinched flesh. Jagged edged notes of sensation. Synthaesia creeping into my perception the less sleep I get. Tomorrow words might have colours again. It’s been a long time. I can no longer judge. A jade statue of a woman, blindfolded, with a measure in her hand. “They worshipped Justice” <\/p>\n
There is something all together too adult in this. My arrangements, my interactions with trust and defense. They work, but should they? I catch friend behavior changes, it starts with vocabulary and drifts silently into action and attitude. Mine are not the average kittenpaw, but they make sense. Livingroom anthropology, it sounds like a plan, eh? My music is on your playlist too. Twang pffffffffffft spark.<\/p>\n
She’s standing alone with long hair in her eyes. She’s singing. They watch as her slight body tips, leaning into the embrace of the wind. She won’t die this time. They put her together better. The red girder bridge is only a prop for the greatest of all shows.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dinner at my mothers was the mental equivalent of a stiff drink. It hits the back of your throat and burns into your blood. A quick shot of something nasty that helps later be slightly better. This has been the final lamb led to slaughter. My skin sings a different pitch. It’s been an interesting … Continue reading “and yet it doesn’t bother anyone who matters”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-941","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/941","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=941"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/941\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=941"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=941"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=941"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}