| But not I
|
| To me, this is insurgency
|
| I used to dream of being inside the womb. |
| Fetal universe, black holes and
|
| emptiness. |
| Orbiting the massive planet of my mother’s booming heart.
|
| Tiny yolk body, tethered like an astronaut, adrift in the tranquil spume of
|
| desolate bliss. |
| Tiny fingers inching from chubby stems, reaching for that great
|
| thumping whoosh of blood and power that wobbles like a snarling god above me.
|
| My fibrous head, translucent as a bell jar, would search with great staring
|
| eyes deep into the godless dark for a light, for a sign, for anything other
|
| than indifference. |
| But the universe would never oblige
|
| Look upon me: a daughter of a child and a monster
|
| Frozen without cold, feeling nothing, unsure, uninspired, veins full of air,
|
| soul fading into the umbra
|
| Who are they to say what is moral when they are broken?
|
| Who are they to say anything about us?
|
| All this, all this
|
| And I want to sledgehammer
|
| And leave nothing but dust
|
| To dust
|
| To dust
|
| To dust
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt
|
| Strangled by a Bible Belt |