Strange, is your southern comfort. A cracked withering queen. Your meat's not free range. Heightening nothing but your senses. But oh, what a scene. Lowering your sensibilities. Forgetting your responsibilities. There's no humanity in your consumption. Fully dubious, that there ever was. Comes the time, for retribution. She's got money for make-up, clothes, booze, 'n' drugs. She's got time for temptations, corruption, hoes, 'n' thugs. Another selfie in the bathroom. Another boy in the bedroom. Huffing perfume. Putting filters on her eyes. Now she never cries. Just screams. Like she screamed in the ride to the hospital to the therapist Life makes it hard to cope when you're related to your rapist Love can make you lie, make you acquiescent when he looks you in the eye as he did, as an adolescent demanding you now stop your ye
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).