My Legs Have Been Eaten
My legs have been eaten. Not by a loss of energy my dear, no no no. This was the word of something far more sadistic. The daughter of suffrage. A bastardized Jezebel. The moths in the attic had a gargantuanly jolly time digging their saliva-dripping fangs into my limbs. The waves of the ocean of these moths silencing my creaking moans with their applause. I was sent off frolicking upon my poisoned mindset of ego, that deadly apple fed to me by the hands of a greedy witch. And what did this succumb to? My halfened body lying poignantly, such as the brain of a victim, deserted, quaking ever so slightly... waiting for that coup de grace angel to lift me upon her shallow ethereal wings while I bask in her sacrilegious gaze. That sinister ticking you hear in your head? Love of mine, that is no indicator, but the equipped sickle of the devil. This devil is the one who ate my legs.
That devil's dystopian values, those conniving tales that paint oils in my head. Those are the ones I fear the most. For those are the ones that are true.
They say immortality is something dreamt of by hedonists. But no. I am the evidence of this fabrication of the Earth's scripture. You see, I am sentenced to my own rebirth every morning. I was born with glass bones and paper skin. At the sunrise, I break my arms. When that yellow disintegrates, I break my legs. You think my saga is unfathomable? Well, it is naive thinking like that that got my legs chewed from my waist. When the stars of the metaphysical murder the logic of the epistemological and my perception of the world is once again twisted like my lover's smile, I know that it is time to walk. What I am looking for, I hope to discover. Could it possibly be the aesthetic of my emotions? Or is that too cataclysmically despondent? My nihilistic ways may soon get the better of me. And when that happens, I beg of you, repeat the devil's work and sell my limbs to your greedy stomach. My legs have been eaten. Now it's up to you to write my ending.
