Sisterhood of the traveling pants.

Let me tell you about damage.

Damage is stomping on the earth
upon every descent.
Damage is taking off on accident
without ever knowing
how low you had hovered.

Damage is finding solace
in inpolite fictions
in a religion of a distant past
that has never accepted
the people said no
But still holds more water
than modern religions combined
with a pinky extended
falling from the sky in an armchair.

Damage is the collective wrath
Of supreme narcissists
Who tortured their creations
With serial killer tact
For the moral infractions
Committed against them
By understood, inferior, beings.

Damage is to spit in zeus’s face
and to feel his wrath upon you,
Only to spit in his face again.

Damage is a badge of a middle finger
That you can take out at will
And use to justify every witness

Damage is a Pandora’s box
Until it damages you in return,
Then in splinters on the floor

Until the splinters attack your bare feet
Then it’s a whole new ball game
Of endless answers
And vague memory of a burning white flag.

Damage is renewable energy
A pendulum of fuck you that never stops
Believing it’s a wrecking ball
When properly irritated.

Damage is a clenching fist
The world is an uncomfortable eight ball
Containing insults and desperate sympathy
For a plastic mold to form hostility
In a revolving door overflowing with contempt
And completely void of regret, remorse,
And rhyme or reason-
It’s just madness-
until it fizzles into nothing
And the damaged walks out of the coma
Like nothing had happened.
Until the next time.

And before then he’ll say it was nothing,
And say it so convincingly as if in denial,
Because it wasn’t. Because he’s used to it.
Because you cannot even fathom what he means
In the seeming contradiction of him not giving a fuck
Yet burning and pillaging imaginary villages
All to get back at an imaginary God.

That’s damage.

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