Heart of Scars

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As she drinks a milkshake in some seedy downtown cafe, a thousand foxes have their bellies torn open in an act of vengeance carried out by those who have no names. As the blood creeps to our feet, a sudden downpour saves us from being tainted, and I smile, although I’m not sure why. I’ve been writing for so long, and yet it’s not long enough. There was a reason to begin with, but that reason has long since slipped into the sea. It used to move me, but the older I get and the more the words bleed from my fingers, the more disinterested I become with all that symbolises what I once stood for. Should go on a detox and make this body feel better. Should make an effort to be more compassionate, but as these images of torture bombard my eyes, my thirst for perversion remains. I grow my beard and hope she imagines what it feels like scratching the insides of her thighs. I sit in silence looking out the window remembering my grandmother’s garden and how in my infancy it seemed to stretch for miles. So many orange suns and so many hours spent under the watchful eye of mother nature. With the hand of my sweetheart in mine, I feed her my kiss and several reasons to say yes. To push her up against the wall and place myself between her legs. She is an orb- a divine half-smile as a beggar gets stabbed in the stomach while stood outside the Salvation Army. Walking by, they place a blanket over his body, and all I can do is stare at the patterns in the frayed fabric that remind me of how good it feels to wake up in the arms of a beautiful woman. Ease my hangover by singing to me in French, or maybe reciting poetry as I curl into a ball beneath a crimson sky. A scar to our hearts and a song for a passing as my neurosis flowers in full bloom. Such pretty petals but truth be told the taste is quite vile.

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