ProjectionWe’re encouraged to silence ourselves, but I am never as loud as I think I am. His glance does not exist. The ache below my ribcage, neither. ![]() The tiny light bulbs in my teeth are crowns of fury, of pinnacle, of laurels allowed to laud any man who wouldn’t immediately collapse ![]() my movie with his fist. Walking around like this is like walking around without knowing how the electricity bill gets paid or where ![]() the theater kids go to get high. Preposterous. We already know the booth is at the back of my throat. We already know what belongs ![]() there. All we really need is a man who knows where the switch is, a man who will leave it running when he goes, that’ll lay me ![]() down and let the light cascade out of me, gasping like the audience we know better than to let watch. The curtains, please. |
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