this ink engraved on your porcelain skin, why have you concealed it? this temple, why is it treading on thin ice with woeful wants disquieting a mellow drum heart. tell me, when did the lines blur¿ are you only taking cognition of how you know right and do wrong? human after all, a receptacle of skin and bones bred from and for desire. to lack, to dream and ask amiss, to wage wars unseen in members, to lose The will in dense double-mindedness.
future self, i hope when you stumble and get lost in the haze you’ll find yourself in the little things, in reprise for the remembrance of what’s forgotten. in crimson words—sound unto repentance for restitution.
James 4:
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