Wheeling Weak Week: Day 6 of the Spectrum

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     Hawks are our absurdities committing our atrocities more ironic than the (G) we together are(n’t) as p(r)etty (a)s. If I’ve built your thoughts to similarities with what I strive to be, it’s understandable on my behalf—love is alone alone alone and forever and ever alone.
     The scare tactic is: I’m falling in this time, it’s six feet deep from the bottom. I’ve done with stepping a toe in and stealing it back, from the beginning I knew it meant nothing but leashes and control and manipulation, so in that sense, yeah, I am a piece of the circus freaks dangling at the top rope. I devoured with a fork on the road, but I’ve kept my genuine pitch—haven’t I? I’m not dead in the deepest corner of the estate or putting out cigarettes on the dancing near-corpses for eventual star-sail…

     Shock hasn’t changed addresses. I moved my valuables from the basement torture of black mares to the comical tragedy: romanticism. Never a disciple of romanticism defining love of another now or together, I’ve even said so myself and—you remember.
     The labyrinth twisted my eyes for relocation to my hands. I’ve surrendered to the white flag begging to be woven into this reality of you all alone and all along the forking freeway of subtle expenses. So! here we are stitch free, I’ve added some buttons for flair… but yours are always going to be much much prettier than what I’ve become and become undone.

     Before the reaper we built the tomb together, but I will nebulously die in this shared grave alone. First, I want to ask you if it’s sick, fleeting love in instantaneous thought—how much of a distraction drowning it is from slathered slander of the grim.
     And now we can perish holding hands at the heavenly end of…!

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