Remember that time I almost woke you up?
You slept through the first fifteen and since then it’s all coasting down hill.
The gravel pit is safe but smells like disaster; or rotting flesh- limited capacity to think, so who cares?
Let the vultures have their share…
The smell of fried meat and no distinction to what’s dead and forgotten. Trans fats are penicillin for the taste buds
You look so cute with your little bonnet wound tight and the skin taut but not excessive— I WONDER WHAT YOU TASTE LIKE?
It’s like I can smell you from here- the fragrant innocence, at least at a distance. And that distance makes it ok to stare.
your eyes wont blink, and you’d care if the world outside made sense.
No one will make you care about others.
No one will make you care for yourself.