A Colloquial Story
When the berry does not belong to us, the juice tends to taste sweeter. Trauma bonded and hard wired, we search for love in the most daring of places and we pound our stamp to declare it ours, no postal code ncessary. Our territory, marked with a ragged flag, that refuses to sway even in the roughest wind. On top of that, the flag is red but blind we are and blind we persist, for red flags seem to feed that hunger and make us oblivious to danger. When Poseidon sees the way we gush and flow, water spilling at every caress, and the games the one we claim plays with his slithering tongue, yes! Even the God of water snarls profusely, demanding our dams to close. No shame because the people man sweet, honey- like too......... yet, preposterous because the lingering aftertaste is bitterness. Yet, we crave it, get high on it, stay addicted to it, at this point, damn near needing a purge. Then there's something about being hidden in the backseat that makes us ooze, or the way we rel...