There is no handheld happiness because existence triggers trauma. The pupil peels plastic papers from wilted water-bottles; the retina rummages through sixty shades of sepia and sorrow, trusting translucent temptation. Options oscillate between burden, beauty, burden. They never make much sense to those who like to misplace gunshots and cumshots in your cornea. A teal-shaped tear follows the Summer Azures north; it exists only to evaporate by the last lavender mourning. Winter’s cold — sweat carves out a capacious canyon in the body, erosion manifests its destiny. One five-liter box of expired Franzia sears sobriety into your sclera. The twinkle of twilight traffic unclogs the air and cascades of cold, in the midst of shower mist, begin to heat and heal. Devoutly, the atmosphere devours the depths of your demons. 阿威啊, unbeknownst to your uterus for another thirteen therapists and billions of Brokelyn brownstones, the brittle boy with hardened hands will hold you until your eye understands: My scars are proof of my will to live.
(level eye) | (eye level)
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Top photo: Traffic Mist on PxHere
“What if we took all this anger born of righteous love and aimed it?”
—Ijeoma Olou, “We women can be anything. But can we be angry?” Medium.com
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