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.
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