A Vacuous Daydream

Something about my humanity has ceased to exist. It seems that I am forever indebted to the empty heart vacantly beating inside my chest and this solidified isolation that I’ve inherited from the moon. For as far as my selfish hands can reach out to another, it’s true that they are merely grasping at another’s throat, causing acute strangulation both around the neck and the heart of the innocent. I’ve wasted so much time and space fooling myself to think, to actually think, that I, some jealous shrew of a woman am actually capable of giving myself to another wholeheartedly and without question. I am capable of no such gift. I do, however, pass out pamphlets of Caligynephobia from my crafty hands of dissimulation. This sticky film surrounds my skin. I’m a woman wrapped in wet paper.