Why does it feel that I have to serve you my words, steaming and dripping with decadence?
Does the imagery compel you to come closer?
When I begin spinning again, the ropes begin to shred, and no amount of sensibility can weigh me down.
Even gravity cannot compete with my tenacity.
When my experiences, narratives are punctuated by ivy and flowers, they can mean something.
When they mean something special, they allow me permission to do the same.