Jen Juice

They tell us what to watch, see, hear, be – the only way I feel that I can have freedom of speech is with my movement – and, even with that how far can I push the envelope not even the boundaries – bodies of perfection and a sentimental look at the way things could be. A variety of lessons and some good ass nothing less than perfection.

I see it was a quasi-moment of rise – the place we find our guides. Nothing more to distract the whoa(s)– just a cradle-robber, a burial and a martyr I sometimes call …mom. And, her (fake) cries.

The bold and the beautiful creases at the point of lost interaction in the form of fuck you, mom. I love you, but fuck you, mom.

The idea of a person being so not able to stand up and be accountable for what – sins? Your God would call them, but what about my God – are they different?

Do you hear the gods of the ego speak so loud you even forgot what the word – mom meant – cuz, you never were – you, as we all, are just a vessel and, I came through yours – so thanks, for your vessel.

That’s all you ever were (and, so it is).

The vessel of a 300-plus pound woman barricading herself in her own skin and fear – hold you closer cuz I know you are hurt – you probably do – I mean you seem to feel something cuz you are alive – though…I doubt that you really are…or for not much longer with your comfort. It is either you or him or both – though, my feeling is your vessels aren’t lasting and even still am I even bothered?

What is to attach to a vessel when I can jump ship?