“Perhaps some day—say 1938, their centenary,—they might be allowed to return together for a holiday, to see the mistakes of their own lives made clear in the light of the mistakes of their successors; and perhaps then, for the first time since man began his education among the carnivores, they would find a world that sensitive and timid natures could regard without a shudder.”—Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams (thanks, patternsofthesky)
The day your tore my heart apart I can’t remember really when, now. I writhed and screamed and It was not enough. Far from enough to quench the thirst The lust, craving — appetite. To dispense some pain, you can’t remember, really when.
I was not born with these appetites. My stomach too weak for such delights.
But you, Sweetness, you, my love? Oh, it fits you nicely, like a glove. Or is it like a Nurse outfit so right? Or like a ratchet bolts all on tight.
Your big mouth you use It is your boon. Those pretty lips that curl in a smirk As you think a buffoon You’ve made.
The pathetic truth? That day you ripped my soul to shreds, I knew it all. I can’t remember really, which day it was. Was it Sunday or Monday? Was it Saint Valentine’s or Martin Luther’s? Or was it every day I thought my pain could quench the thirst.