War Paint

Swallow the pill of pride; gulp it down with the animosity you hold so dear for relinquishing control-- the potentiality of being hurt. Don your stoicism, the war paint emboldened on stone face, it will do no good, you’re marked. Like the exhalation of stale breath, releasing tension oozed up in the unused muscles of your heart, it will flood you in the blood frenzy of war. No amount of armor can rid you of the kinks. Infection is inevitable. Defeat is an immovable object, love an unstoppable force.

Starting with the tango of tongues slithering sinuously, lighting blood afire--it shines viscerally in predatory eyes. Life becomes a matter of action and reaction; it’s no longer thoughts, but desires, and necessary steps leading up to the apocalypse. Shedding the necessity of decency, morals become jests in the zest of living-- the explosive drive of rapture.

Paint mixes with feral sweat to stain the scene in primal indecency. Stripped bare, left open for the kill, you’ve surrendered so completely that victory is mere letters you’ve never deigned necessary to wink into being. Guttural images flash across neurons, forming contentment amidst the chaos. Sated aftermath brings clarity of the blank canvas. Washed clean in soiled sweat, war paint pools at your feet, remnants of prison garb—a carapace.