May 9, 2019
There's a weird skin happening under your floor, serving the house as a means to hide it behind false faces. We know facades. They cover our diseases. They function as a palliative for them who cannot look at us with any truth. A patchwork quilt of lies decorates our habitats. In their belly we discern our lives and our deaths as interchangeable. I can look at you. Your skin is nothing. I see beneath its face. I can hear the voice it utters behind the voice you use to greet me. I am divested of humility as I devour you.