Whole Face Genocide
The tip of a nose.
The tip of a nose extending forward slightly to the left.
On the tip of that nose is a little red blotch extending forward to the left, jutting out at me like an accusation. Extending…
Behind the little nose that extends forward to the left, jutting out at me like an accusation is a freckled face framed by cascading, orange curls. Awful red dot, blotching the tip of the….nose.
Nose goes. Nose knows not where it goes, opens up slightly to the left, so I can see a freckled framed face with orange hair. Locks that lock me out in flames... ears hear nothing while I scream obscene things about
the tip of a nose extending slightly to the left.
Fish lips always remain silent. Once those rubbery muscles start, all they do is open and close. Complete silence. I would know. I have slept here before, slightly left.
My hatred knows no bounds for this elitist ginger. It encompasses those freckles and red blotches, those accusing eyes highlighted by bushy eyebrows and filmy contacts. It encompasses those dead fish lips. A whole face genocide. Leaning to the left.
Suddenly, I am torn between sacred silence of consent and the violent voice of a thousand fists up a… nose.
All of these things I could have loved. One time I found beauty in Rudolph, but now only, a great defector. And I, the комисса́р, shot the loving private.
The mortal wound leaning slightly left.
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