- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
With the flair and fault of my hours, I can’t discount the horror wrought. I twisted every word into sin and colored the brightest good into shame. I am smoke. Charnel leavings splayed in the open sky and left to brilliantly dissipate as if I’d never mattered to the flame I leave behind; that no one ever mattered. Because nothing can be unsaid. No twist of the knife dug deep in your spirit can unfurl and spring from the deep wound. They’ll applaud. A circle of courtesy with hands stinging at the constant assertion that this show is light and shadow, color on vibrant palette. It’s not. It’s not the fucking artifice you’ve decided to make things ache more or less. It’s a broken body and smashed bones lying at the end of each promise I’ve made. If you think drawing breath is easy, then know that these lungs are clouded with the sand of every beach, every desert. And that this heart finds just no potential for growth. Dry and barren, it beats on and drains. It kills because there’s nothing else a knife knows other than how to cut. (at Uncharted)