Fuck you, you have nothing on me.

People who go through crisis end up hating themselves
It’s the start of every redemption story
It’s the beginning of the descent towards the divine
It’s the flesh and the bone and the sinew revealed by the brutal and brutalizing lashes of reflection
Oh you will see
Oh you will see
And then you will know north and north east by the fall of the sun, and the whip of the wind, and roots that head towards water even as they rot at the foot of your sympathy.
Fuck you. Pheobe.
You have nothing on me.

Chasing neon you rush to the click of women treading on thick heels and thick men with thick wallets and thick necks and thick skulls and egos thicker than their sticks and you bitch to me about your stitched up life.

Fuck you Phoebe.
You have nothing on me.