Nothing is innocent, just degrees we believe, we cling to and lose when we lose our grip on the world, lost in this limbo between what we think of as right, and what we think we know is wrong, the rage of flesh, the heat of it dripping from our brows among the moans and groans of joy. This passage we take, joined at the hips and lips, we can’t keep contained, we slipping over the edge from what we assume to what we think we know as real, feeling it under our skins and deep in our heads, rubbing it raw, wearing it out, unable to stop until we’re too weak to continue on, this presumption of innocence we know is not, guilty of what passed through us, even when we keep from acting it all out, and we would have it no other way.
No comments:
Post a Comment