Contempt of the temporary.

When you think you finally caught up to life, it slips away again.

Em feelings of accomplishment recycling, transitioning. And the struggle comes real again. I mean what can I even hold onto? Push and pull, but a tug of war. Shadows of the past wrapping, warping my vision. Alone, I sit on stool, watching night pass way. Disturbed, dawn too bright. Though, may the blinding light rock me to sleep. In the wake of freshiz, infusion of tears, profusing. Please, leave me to rot, contemplating logic, magic. 

I have fallen. Fallen in love with you, but last it will not. Telling, nothing good ever sticks. Proof? You are not even real. Just a figment of the fig tree, seedy. Be gone already. I refuse to be first parting. Hurt me 4 I do. Leave me crippled, begging for seconds. These feelings are frail, viral. If left unchecked, devastate they will too. So attach your tutu and pray that you wake not the monster within. Sippy cup, café con ceited.

Do what you do best. Werk off that juicy bootay. And fill out that fat pigsy. Finish what you started, so you may finally spread wings. Soar high, O Lard of flies.

Photography by M. Klasan.