This is mine. I own this shit, and I'll do what I want with it. I figure it's an electronic shovel, and I'm gonna sweat more than John Henry. I want to be down deep in it, farther than six feet in it, down in the dark, moist heat of it. I want to compost myself.
Composting is important, but maybe you don't care about the earth, you fucking dick. Not that I compost, or care about anything, but you're still a dick. That's undeniable. You smell like Nixon, I'd imagine. He's dead now, so he probably doesn't smell as slick. Splitting hairs.
So, like I said, this is mine. You can try to take it from me, I don't care. It'll be nice to get some fresh air.
We're all on the same team! You can keep saying it and we can keep smiling about it, but I gotta say - sounds like the makings of a very damn boring game.
I keep a knife beside me when I write. It is for cuticles and apples and bits of string. It is to hold and caress. It is there to slice through epidermal armor, into the slop and meat of myself. I've got to put my hands in there and get the feel of it. I want to feel the wet squish through my fingers, hold my heart and feel the thump.
Or I'll move on down the line, handful of dimes. Bagging. Sack the village. Burn it. The bridges, too. There is no going back.