It's all just a series of loose connections
Like peanut butter and banana sandwiches
Glued together with honey
Or song lyrics and the slow death of feminism
Synapses fire at random
Latching on to anything within reach
Until I've stacked gender roles on top of legos
Beneath a mountain of books
On how to be a good Christian
And in my eyes, that pile sits in the corner,
Sweltering
Dripping useless and outdated ideas into the floor
Until the room is filled with them
And you can't help but to breathe it in
I can taste their pungent odor
Like foghorns at a Friday night football game
The thick vibrations grapple at my throat
Until my tongue swells like a decomposing body
Adrift in the river
And I yank out my teeth
Just to open an air passage before I lose conciousness
And fall to the floor in a drunken stupor
High on my own vanity
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