Aware of the Coma

Take care with naming the parable. Count your wolves carefully. Make note of your little pigs.

Fairy tales are too much like skin. Asking so much. Proving nothing. Frankensteins on hte verge of sex. Monsters in her weekday. Borrowing from thicker concussions.

Words. In fits of oblivion. Gods debating. Ambivalent saviors.

The mythology of skin in paper cuts. So many gods. So little blood.


Just the nagging ache that accompanies the fear that i've said too much.

And the knowledge that the end to this coma lies within.

It takes too long to remember. Even longer to forget. And it only matter because it's broken. Because I want more than it is.