caramel sticking in the roof of my mouth
Zero bar from the fridge.
Cold cola from same, no ice. Cola black like my unconscious mind, seemingly hiding things from the world around it.
that stickiness in the back of my throat from the sweet soda. If it aint good and cold, it won't kill a strong thirst.
the stupid blood smell of hot metal coming from the lawnmower and the grass hasn't been cut but maybe once in a year.
and once again I'm the little butterball that smells like sweat and ass with a torrent of flies hording around me.
I wasn't free, even then. Diminished rights. All that. Beholden to others. The weakling pup follows the pack at a distance, while the strong run point.
Todash. The chimes end. The black sky. A rain of snowflakes.
My teen years this time, and my teenage love burned like a witch by the mayor. Still smell like ass and sweat. What was she thinking? Did that turn her on?
I'm yelling "THIRTEEN!!!" and my old counterparts are coming out of the bleachers, here and there, one by one, and starting to fight alongside me. My betters realized they f**ked-up by giving the wrong guy the death sentence. I vow to stick that executioner's axe straight-up his ugly a**.
Because I have friends. And some of them are Vulcans.
At the end of the day.