I was born during a time of misappropriation, when songbirds died in firefights. I can't remember like I used to; fiercely hidden are the days when it rained napalm from Nepal. The womb withered from grief radiation poisoning after its opposite met split ends in a cratered lead pestilence. It still remains blank to me; unimportant and malignant like the aluminum-housed acids of the past luxuries.

It wasn't hard to live in a shell. The numerical nuances still enrapture me today.

It's a pity everything fell to ravaged vultures and chance had a hand in the descent into turbulence.

I'm too impulsive.

He enveloped me soon after, sick at six from that mental disease, being atrophied by delusions and disillusions (I'm fine now). The miracle of cohesion led to an untimely contraction; it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault. I was to be the sun for him; lackluster ambitions manifested a more melancholic path (I love words). I was barren to feminine repulsiveness. Much too tentative for burn-scars; too clean, too hateful. Firedancers are known for their bodies, not their hair.

Tea is nice on a rainy day.

I missed my opportunity, though.

I was the ostracized of seven and the wanton exception to eight. All it took was greyed remains and apathy to find sanctimony. It was an anticlimactic precedence. Titanium ligaments supported me in a cacophony of repetition. It satisfied my owner, the onlookers, the trainers. I was the gift with a mismatched, mismanaged background. I wasn't meant; it was an extrapolated conclusion (pronouns excite me). All grievances notwithstanding, I led and they followed with regurgitated dignity. We were all the more idolized; I was all the more estranged. I blame it on their manufractured pride. There's nothing wrong with me.

I am reckless spontaneity.

This affliction I developed there ago, it still rots me with unadorned pleasure. It narrows like the corridors of vertigo. She locked me in a kaleidoscope and sentenced me to ornate speculation of a thousand lilacs. She knew of her cause, she knew of my malnourished tendencies. She was already complete, Emily with the backdrop of Anthony. It was a fusion of most disgusting proportions, repugnant to the senses, alight with trash-worthy phrases and clichéd purposefulness. I couldn't live with it. It just

wasn't

enough.

I was the consummation of his heart.

I consumed his heart.

It was a one-sided assimilation, dog-kill-dog.

Salene still endured for her; she performed instructions that gave the rejection ten minutes of light before descending to the yearning maw again. Competition demolished. However, the exposure spoiled her and a blood-letting ensued, painting her bland and glassed with an overworld touch. Death's bones still shook. I couldn't look away. A Victorian mandate left for another, and she was too impatient for the reprieve. Promised from first to last, she left without deceit for me,

and she was sanguine without me.

I still remember (the remnants of) her face.

Her will was dismembered affections, and born from it was this ephemeral atrocity, crossed from the wake of a masochist bacteria culture, Aiden. It was her Greek tale, my Sophocles tragedy. I guess transpirations left me a sour rebuke.