what the gods did

The amount of bile that cul­mi­nates in the back of my throat be­cause of the ass­holes who de­filed my body and purged my strength from my hands is of a quan­ti­ty only per­ceived by bastards. 

My bed is uncomfortable. 

My work is foreign.

My chest hurts.

My head aches. 

My stom­ach is sick. 

What kind of cul­ture do we live in where this bull­shit is swept un­der the carpet –
where our in­sti­tu­tions do noth­ing to up­set their shareholders,
where protests are scrubbed from the internet,
where cops sup­port their own no mat­ter what they’ve done, for fun,
where courts pro­tect coun­try club cronies,
where small of­fens­es re­sult in hard time, so much they’ve made a NET­FLIX se­ries about it,
where smil­ing rich boys get to laugh and laugh and just move on with their lives,
be­com­ing who we look up to –
our he­roes, our celebri­ties, our pil­lars of society?

I can­not sleep. I can­not delete the data of your drunk­en grin on your face be­fore my eyes cap­sized. I can­not bring my­self to move. I can­not do any­thing but lay down con­vuls­ing from anger.

You. Rot in hell.
 
 

—brit­tknee

Flom­mist Brit­tknee fre­quents cof­fee shops. Her sec­ond self, Car­la, fre­quents the work­sta­tion. Bleary-eyed. Fore­head scrunched. Fum­bling through your re­al­i­ty. March­ing through our own. Copy­right © 2016 Brittknee.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

READ SOME  RELATED  DER TUNG  POSTS  :

get the hell out of our society just so far liv­ing in a war zone how ed­u­cat­ed we are sort­ing scared out of our minds right about now al­ter­na­tive learn­ing this week rape is rape