Wear your mask for the masses. I want to know more about your madness—the things that bring you to your knees/make you struggle to breathe

Show me/tell me what’s broken you and how you were remade. How much of the old you remains? Where on your body do I put my hands to connect with that version?

Tell me your tough tales, the ones you stumble through like molasses caresses your tongue as you speak, like something thick and gooey guards/holds/restrains your tender thoughts.

Share with them your rehearsed stories—the ones you know where to pause for reaction. You and I are stronger than stylized lines, more prolific than fiction.


Between Desires & Dreams
Proper Proportions

14 thoughts on “Molasses

  1. There’s something about the staccato way of your arrangements that never ceases to get under my collar–Masses/Madness, Remade/Remains, molasses/caresses. Again, that give/take and push/pull of your words…and your body. You can feel the radiating heat like a hot city mirage; stunning.

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