the SECOND of JULY, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

drunken on faux sanctity; i am sober for the first time. your hazy beauty has been unmasked.
it was something i dreaded, my god-fearing self, the looming inevitability of clarity seemed daunting. there was
something holy about being hopelessly devoted to a false idol, devout and blinded by sermon. but, slowly,
i have begun to realise that liberation is more comfort than the chains of a glorified delusion. your divine
right to my lack of sanity is dead - you are dead. your scarlet petals are wilting, my love.