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I pat my brows with a handkerchief I fancy, and I think about the plight we are in today; it makes me squirm. In all my words you seek to find a formula, but your ledgers are filled with trending tabs (ephemeral tallies). You make me feel like I should be held in a box. It is impossible for someone to grow or be better than they were yesterday; simply by choice, they wish to step back and publish a little slower, less frequently.

Instead, I will feed you garbage and you will call it human. I will drag my silk in the mud and feed your mind cheese instead of vegetables, making you constipated so that you will never grow. This is the way to take a pen away from a writer, to seduce (inveigle) us with your own (machinations) agenda, to mark a name with something trending so we will click it and gobble it up while you get paid.

It is nothing against you, because I will still click it so that compassion and love might reign supreme… still…

This is the way to throw her talent out of the window, so that not even her lipstick smears the frame. I am not writing for myself; I am writing for others who feel this way. My lipstick will be the deeper red against the modern (glister) flare of something that (vitiates,) dulls like a pencil lead.

I fear that her words won’t reach the ears of someone who needs them, someone who needs the help she could bring from her own experience. You will be the one to withhold help from another stuck in their room, under a blanket in the dark. They haven’t brushed their teeth or their hair; they haven't taken a bite of a juicy burger, or even moved to care for themselves. The tears are still streaming down their face.

Your pencil lead only draws strokes on their faces, saying they will be well if they are just left all by themselves. But my (unalloyed) visceral truth will set them free. Their lips will be as red as mine, worthy to be taken out for a night in a red dress and sipping red wine.

A/N: I have seen things that I do not like, but I also yearn to protect others whenever I write. This piece reflects that: at least, I hope it does. I did not intend to cause offence; so, if you are offended, please accept my apologies. This is art, and this is (ardor) love.