Sci·am·a·chy noun [sahy-am–uh-kee]: an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.
A fresh start, in the comfort of discomfort, is a monster sized bite on the pie chart of the things I need
So then, when I try to kiss you, why does your visage taste like omelette du fromage?
I would answer that question, but then I’d have to question my answer considering how I’ve been swinging for way too long to know that I really am Tarzan and that this skin is just a facade I wear to hide my superhero costume
Because when you throw a man who is the sum of his addictions in a straitjacket, into a room infested with all his fears, even the parasites in his brain begin to develop mental disorders
I was told I was infected since wrath greed sloth envy their cousins stepbrothers and mothers in law, none of these imaginary enemies ever made it to my shitlist, and in my defense I told them it was a defense mechanism against their conventional and dogmatic lifestyle, they heard every word but they refused to listen, they threw me into concentration camp with this man who never broke eye contact and was called a therapist
Yes, he was called the-rapist because he asked my mind to open its mouth and used a tongue depressor to inspect the deepest reaches of my mind’s throat, then he went on to unbutton my neurons and used his stethoscope to hear my heart bang against my chest after asking me to take in long and gentle breaths. And after he was done he handed me a mini roulette wheel with pills so that I could avoid spawning symptoms and described the taste of a mirror to me…which is why the person I’m talking about appears to be a narcissist with a big nose and a crisp list of words at his lips…and he sounds like he talks with a lithp