Apologists in utero

O never liked the violence. He spoke its language, all the venom, all the screeching to a stop words… O loved his hammers.. All those different sizes…

O parked his car, walked into the room, blood pouring onto that San Diego sweatshirt..the one she brought back, a gift before the trip. The propane tank and the aging Aryan only broke the skin, it was O that pulled it tight to begin with. The things a man will do when pressed. Violence and speed. The car and the challenge of morality broken now..broken like a bone. That is the finality.. The shore receding with it…

‘Dot that nigga,” stagger then walk away .. The respect for life feels aged..expired.., only a small tap and the nail is driven … better to respond than react.. O the ant saving it for the day when walking away would shed light and with it, the dirt and the soil … with it the cadence of requiem. “there’s a chance that grass might grow if we’d all stop standing so close together”….

Sigrid

“Let me go before I’m all stimulated” … this is proof of the thing between them, that thing like trust and she has never seen his scars, she has never seen the blood or the hit the flesh way he twist his lips … they are the windup.. Twisting the fury…

O stands eyes closed in the shower..he is pushing her through the tile … once, twice again, breaking the bone .. The severity of his apology ..love is twisting his lips and the dominance insists …O insists.. This marital bliss.. This washing and marking … a lip bitten … home in the womb …marked like property..again..strange what a woman will beg from you when pressed .. A tear in the womb is a fence mended in the heart … marked.

Art credit: Standing girl in a plaid garment------ Egon Schiele.. 1909

2nd image..what you thought was fiction---- Bret Marston Hall…2019