no need for extraneous holocausts today. I have enough of my own clustered about me like some demonic clutch. mewling and gnashing and wanting every little piece of me that dangles pathetically toward their teeth. those fucking teeth. sticky with ice cream and sloughed-off failure. sharpened upon the whetstone of my maladroitness. tempered in the stagnant pool of my ability to cope.
“Not only does he despise fireworks,” says St. Borracho, acting as my intermediary, “but it’s probably unwise to have him near any bridges at the moment.” (I fidget with my lighter.) “He’s feeling a bit flinty.”
looming over me for 7 odd years now, just biding its time. watching me grow soft and succulent, like a supple sacrificial calf. savoring all of my weakest moments, using them like seasoning. letting me tenderize myself with my hopelessness and rage. the Beast has finally found its time to pounce. rending flesh from gleaming white bone. “WASTE NOT”, it says, picking its fangs with my apologies, “WANT NOT.”
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