A Toast

Before we begin, I want you all to know
that I don’t give toasts often.
I don’t just raise my glass to every
fucker on the street with an
opinion.

No. That’d be too easy.

I want you to know that in this era

– and passed through all ages of time –

opinions are like a rated class

you’ve got to wear them with some
form of fabricated elegance.

Hence why I’m in a dress.

Yet when the going gets tough,

and oh, my love, you know it does,
the madness gets hard to chew through.
You run out of those logical molars.
Next thing you know you’re choking on

questions and bleeding in the gums.

Stop.

See, opinions are tricky, they disguise

themselves as law and in return create
criminals of the soul.

I grew weary of the fiends from an early age,

I felt constricted,
as though I was silencing others through
my own doubt, my own crawling fears.

I may not have a lot of class to begin with,

a mouth full of wine and a slurred tongue,
but I’m not afraid to admit I like the clean
slates of the world,
the ones with minds so open
they burst from the knowledge.


You could spill yourself and all those hidden truths

all over my freshly cleaned rug, and I’d still find
a way to make art out of you.

No opinions attached
.


B. , xoxo

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