Daniel Romo Summer 2017 * Countdown Nothing matters until the 4th quarter or until the capsized ship has run out of life vests. Pre-shock passengers bobbing up and down in icy water. The ball dribbled during the last seconds setting up a game-winning shot. Flailing hands grasping for sky as if reclaiming exhaled breaths. Face-painted fans cheering wildly, hoping their team will reach state. The body reaches Hypothermia at 96 F, and the first team to score 100 usually wins. Every fact was once a facade; every oasis, once a mirage. In the distance, a rescue boat approaching. Following close behind, a tidal wave. * Splintering You say it's sexy how I'm breaking. The way my bones decay and snap is no cause for concern, but an aphrodisiac. A quirky, seductive rattling like calcified rain. The manner in which my tendons stretch to capacity only to tear apart is a turn on. Nothing says lust like a ruptured Achilles. How seductive it must've been for the Greek and Trojan women to witness the aftermath of such a bloody battlefield. To observe the way men maim and murder one another in the name of ethos and egos. I've learned how to tell you when I hurt, and you've took it upon yourself to listen and take notes. The instructions for reassembling a man will be revealed once you pull an arrow from his heel. |
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