Sunday 11/16/2008 12:56:00 AM

The ink in tundras. Tops of mountains. Falling down. Infants crawling into orphaned skins. Fat bellies pounded with empty fists. The truth is this world suffocates us. In tiny coughs. Until the disease is all that is left.

I can't kill. Though sometimes it would seem the answer. To dirty questions. All my lovers were afraid to ask. I can't scream. Blame the ritual of touch for what has never been. It wasn't taken. That's the sad part.

It never was. So whom do I blame?

I found the tunnel. It was just as dark as I had always imagined. I found the tunnel. The fat dick trying to push its way into the small hole. And I thought it must've been so afraid. To see.

What was on the other side of nothing.

Men hate women. Women hate themselves. Nothing to love. Other than that pin prick of light that slithers through her legs. As she tries on the dirty dress. The math overlooked.

Reason enough she whispered. As the drawstring on her pajamas began to count backward again.

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