Member-only story
1% fat milk
In detailed attention, I died hard to terminate the licking mission.
A human cake, an artificial profile, I was drowning between the instant affection and the evolutionary need, the strict need to breed.
I just couldn’t tell why filters took fat percentage as my survival depend on the very energy to nourish love, plastic or living flesh, love is energy and it’s conditional.
Could feel myself punching my stomach twisting to find the power to maybe calm down when the entire relationship seemed to be leaning on luck, possibility, and the impulse to degrade the fatal boredom of genital motors.
Neither, Medium feeds my views nor my views feed Medium.
I have not parachuted dangerously just to conform to the sights of these seamless rib formations on tight skin, Trump’s tanning bed shade.
Hanging myself on his red tie, since swinging fat, whole, and raw might be a better answer for the philosophical tiresome question of the art of loving.
Flightless, yet some sort of failing yet flapping, barely flying.
The tie was left a reminder not to stop at a red light, skies couldn’t care less about the landlocked mass of psychological traffic jam.
Less sugar.
Starving the demon.
