Hot Disappointment
Sullen pestilence gnaws tunnels through my foundations like expanding cracks in pressurised glass. I lose my symmetry. Hot disappointment dances these wrinkles between my eyebrows. And I'll never again complain of boredom. In this cell, I am the nucleus. Echoes of my past bite my skin in all directions to manipulate an exclusive existence and tear me asunder. Hot disappointment patronises and accuses, my effort is insufficient; I cannot duplicate myself and this cell. I must be one. Existential sedatives delicately massage my unrelenting questions into uneasy slumber, and the stimulants release exhaust in genius foghorn complaints. Hot disappointment singes my jealousy in the latest realisation that the cure is better than any symptom anaesthetic and the cure wants to talk, always. Beloved sorrow sharpens teeth and nails at the parting of every friend, pupils still sparking questions and ...