Empty Cupboards

He's a douche bag. I'm an idiot. That's the only proof I have. Of the hurricance. Of the apocalypse. They suffer now, but their suffering is disconnected. I would sleep if I could. And dream of new ways to hate them.

Their crippled gods limp closer to the threshold. the thin membrane that sepeartes men and saviors. she whittles her heavens from discarded matches. rambling about teh the flame once present.

there is no obvious darkness. nothing to blame. for the pungent echo in these steps. as upward chokes. on the simple places where skin is drawn. in levies of choices deep with panic of independence.

Her voice almost spoken. Her lies all but spent. On lenghty poker games. Loud with wagers for absent aces. alone surprises her. with how loud it is.

she waits for the world to end. and is disappointed when it doesn't.

gravity persues her. in short skirts and long wars. The dead are patient. 

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