Dermatillomania by Kathleen Brien

wanting to get down so who is to judge those few who just want head from those who are trying to get up?

To be handled like limestone– heavy, earthy, and concrete to the eye, until placed in curious hands, the same hands that had just marveled at how it had gleamed in the sun, and the realization occurs that the stone is easily broken, broken into fragments and dust of the gem it once was and when combined with the right chemicals can create a volatile reaction, leaving only the stone to be blamed for its explosive properties.

It is to sprint through a cross-country race or climb down a burning ladder– both built of power and the feverish imagination of the image beyond those buttons– both with qualification based upon predetermined molds, and a rare finish line sponsored by those who must have fucked me in order for me to have made it so far.

It is to be unaccounted for the bountiful; the environment provided

until air could safely enter and exit our lungs, the nurture as constant and engulfing as the sun, until we learned to trust the moonlight as well. To be seen as a collective of gentle giants, and cut down by the masses and used as resource and when told of the future consequence, to be answered with the promise of progression and the bettering of the majority.