Stigmata and the Magical Satellite
I'm sorry I fell to my disease. You know, the rare form of cancer they call atheism. It's okay though, sir. I'm getting better though, sir. They've locked me up now, sir. I'm sure I'll believe soon, sir. He who casts the first stone also rapes me with his crucifix, until psychoses flash before my eyes. Now I have to crawl across my floor. Of course paralysis zeroes in upon my life at that point, and my padded cell becomes more like a TV, devouring my life just like you say Satan is. My kindergarten wounds open up like doors sometimes. They wonder, what really was in Pandora's box? They wonder, how fast will tomorrow fade away? As they wonder, kids everywhere look to the sky. Little girls ask Jesus for pretty things, thinking of him as some kind of magical bearded satellite, as I still dream up my own constellations, and suffocate them til I cry....me on a bad day Written January 6th, 2002 © on Jan 06 2002 09:27 AM PST, Katrina Armour 0 • 10
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"I'm sorry I fell to my disease...."