Day Twenty-Eight – A Message Written in Mustard Beneath a Park Bench in a Secluded Spot Near the Lake Where Maddie Gantt Found the Possum With the Eye Infection
If you were to find yourself so inclined to dive into that mirror, you would likely find me halfway through that diamond maelstrom, regarding you with disdain from some reflective abode – perhaps a corner of shattered glass, an edge, a wink of light among thousands.
That’s what you want, and you know it – a sideways, uncoupled somersault through enough razor edges to render your overeaten flesh to soup. It’s not your body you hate, and let’s get something straight, I don’t hate my body either. This is where we pull apart you and I – me being the voyeur you so desperately want, not touching you, but murdering you with intentions from a far. For all your lovely prose, your unshackled sexual power, your misplaced sense of godhood, I am the woman who can see the string guiding you up that tall, tall ladder in the sky. I…
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