Ammo-ninity. N. an expression for preemptively assuming protection of private information and thoughts, due to it being a more crushing blow for said information to be broadcast publicly and nobody batting an eye, or really much giving a shit.
Darkly toned tales and figures represent me, namelessly drowning in a sea. Which when drank up, leaves others still thirsty—maybe too aplenty in drops of not-enough? Social security numbers and salty pasts? Brothers and sisters, all you gotta do is ask. Preferences and credit scores, take’m, they're yours...and to say it all to you, salt and pepper girl, nothing would free me more. Because all—and I mean all—interpretations of me and my secrecy, took a giving axe to some growth-like identity. Right now, I’m looking clear at it. As is, it should burn pretty well, a nice and fresh split. So what’s the cost of restored sincerity? Like if a repairman existed and spent his Saturdays in the shop and on-call? How much is it to repair and mend and reclaim me as whole? Well, the cost is giving over these types of tidbits, I've found. Because what I have to offer--if I’m not beyond repair--well, there's an inexhaustible amount to go around. And, by and large baby, it’s a solid seed in fertile ground—potentially, even a wise tree. Wise enough to play its strength as a sway with the breeze. It’s just about a sprout and I want it all yours, because you got the one thing I need. You got a mind and the pipes to tell me you appreciate me. Perhaps just maybe you’re doing night duty on-call? Oh ok, I totally get it, just trust I understand what you say, and let me hang up this phone ok? Your tones of voice dial-up fragile insides, and I hear inconvenience in what you don’t say. With a proud and tall capital I. It’s fine, I can keep moving on, and truth is, it’s not like it’s just me. I mean, feeling ok’s always purchasable from the almighty He, and a bit of that lonesome tv. Make yourself comfy in the imagination land of my Ammo-ninity.
No comments:
Post a Comment