Dead Batteries

The patron and the poverty of skin. Disrupts my assassins. Thumbing through the hollow photographs. This flesh has developed. The pictures behind broken glass. Tell a different story. Than the lens that first mistook. Apathy for freedom.

It woke me up too early one morning. The dissonance of retrospect. A collision of arrogant gods. Each with their own paradise to market. I spent my morning stripping the barbie dolls. My evening selling them on a conversation I wished had never happened.

The hard lines of their flesh were beautiful, but impossible to trust. My shoes at the door squeaked of storms long ago passed. That the ground had not yet forgotten. She would query the machines. In the space between the raindrops. As if she was sure. It would never stop.

Easier she told me to be the void.