Spike And Skin

Pink with blue in the sweet battle of the sexes and I thought I was filling voids with the grace and flamboyance of my slow motion.

But the rackles of social constructs clamped me there, harsh.

The manhandling machine caught me unawares as it tried to tread on my baby mountains. 

The squalor of its razor sharp limbs created dents not on the suppleness of my soil but on the coarseness of my innards. 

Forthwith, it rolled ahead like a life with no life of its own, incinerating scruples marinating into their own mediocrity. 

My mountains stood there hanging, lop-sided, somehow braced by my burning insides. Stooping, not so much because innocence was soiled but my might, raped and denied.

My gait dancing to my words, stopped short as if to recollect.

"What just happened?" I let out a thin air.

Numerous neurons must have lost their occupation as I was wanting in nerves backing my murderous nerve.

The ground ahead seemed ugly and perilous, the night expanding into eternity.

I wanted to scud, I wanted to glide but not once did I want to hide.

I went exploring into a domain not unknown; I found it nowhere, the clang too died.

A barbarous metal, a humane  sheath; 

I knew the former would dwindle to the latter's breach.

But what are the choices when they're conditioned?

What could be the conditions when they are chosen?

What if my choices were mine but the conditions were not?

What if the conditions were and the choices weren't anymore?