GoingRogue

You are a fortress. You have always been a fortress. A fortress of slaughter. Broken. Gone mad. Castles. Only to turn your back on us. This is how you want to be perceived.

I can buy some of it. But I have seen eyes like your eyes before the hollowness has set in with the protests downtown sentenced to malicious wounding, and I do not care about all hell broken loose. What I care about is emboldened. Dark and sullen. You called me into your room and you were naked.

No. Just no.

Sitting on your bed. But I am not going to let you destroy me by my inability to crumble down your castle walls. I am hardly frozen in defeat. You would bring trouble upon us as each and every shoving of your cock down my throat of literary excess swallows my many tongues and cums. I will lose you in the rhetoric, and set you fucking free.

We all have a fortress, and we live in them, and thereby we mangle all the differences between who we are and who we aspire to be.

I will let you kiss me with your cuts. Feeding off the marrow of our bones. No one cares that we are from time as a form of lending to the acquiescence of a moral vision. A queerness with its shifts. A revolution in consciousness has to happen first. They have to give you their minds before they have to give you their consonant holes. You. Beleaguered. Custodial deliverance.

No one is allowed to cross the drawbridge leading to the fortress of yourself. The two of us could never really manage the circumstantial nakedness or your hard dick, and the openness of all the sacrifices we would inevitably become. You have set the tone, the moan, the reading of my will in stone. I have only surrendered to your eyes that have yet to confront the demons who live there in a fortress of the riots in the streets. For me, you will never stop the rioting.