Transnational hypnosis.
Genetically inherit misanthropist.
The stainless steel doorknob, of brushed metal keeps turning.
The bolt keeps spinning, the chamber filling.
Emptying.
The firing pin can't keep up.
The barrel rising in temperature.
Tubes in the box behind the screen,
Filling my retinas with images I've already seen.
I've imagined worse.
The unstoppable force.
Stay the course, keep firing, dirt flying.
They're numbers dwindling, slowly dying.
Their mouth bears the wrinkles and creases of every last failure.
Their eyes, mucus in the corners, circles underneath, staring at the floor, every step unsure.
Nose is a floodgate for their friends and family to open.
Fists unscathed, as if they could never defend.
Withered, insecure, powerless, beaten and terrified.
They couldn't establish high ground if they even tried.
I'm winning the war.
I will always win,
your life is a fucking metaphor.
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