crescent beams.

and yet i’m awash in this all.  i promise you it’s no different now than it was many years before it ever occured to me that your cunt was nothing more than air-dried seashells left out to bake in the sun, to starch and become raw, crisp, and flaky.  to touch you makes me bleed; you cut.  awful, awful thoughts pervade me; i see you lying there, bare underams and legs yearning for it’s missing piece to fulfill it; but my curves don’t fit yours; they gnash and tear the flesh, leaving you as scabbed and rubbed as the sand dripping through the cracks of my toes.  i want to find you and offer you salvation, then it tear into it with my incisors and bicuspids and fangs and teeth and gnaw gnaw gnaw until all you can read is "___ forbid" in tattered parchment. beat my ___ damned hands into this ___ damn earth until ___ finds me and tells me that ___ is real.  when he does, I’ll point to you, the bloated mermaid of the deep, and say, " you let this live? carry on like some whore who prefers the ecstacy and the feel of the profession more than the money? the plague of our existance as human beings?  and i’ll spit. spit bile, blood and bacteria all over you, until the acid singes the skin, causes the hairs on your arm and back to shrivel up and expire like a candle wick.  beached.  bleached and forgotten. all i ask of you to do is smile, and in return you bloat.  i wish i could prick you off like the festering pustule that you are, but instead you are my mole, growing back hairier and more grotesque every time i send your hunk of flesh to the earth. i look around these sands and see maidens, sirens, all gleaming with the crescents and the esscence of just flailing away at your mounded flesh, sculpting arcs and contours into your caked fat.  pestilence.  that’s what you define. and i lather lather lather rinse rinse rinse in this rain that has sprung out of the oasis behind you. and i am pure. and you are unclean.

that is the defined, the realigned.

this is it.