Who put my soul in the hands of business men

Fuck this. The whipping tongues of infatuation twine with barbed-wire anxiety and I am hung by the skin of my elbows. Desire becomes anger in the crinkling of a nose. And you you you are not what you seem. And this. Fuck this. All metal and noise racing down my hair past my face. The spun-silk bars of cages we weep against with joy. And comfort. Rebellion will be placated. Rage will never be what is supposed to come. They will trickle and knock pipes against walls at inconvenient hours of the day. The noise and bluster of sneering regret. I hate it all. But not enough. To throw away what doesn’t matter. Scrape my heels for the rest.