History Repeats Itself
When history repeats itself, What story does it tell? Of men in sweat and swords, Clinging to life at the people’s hands?
Or of men in suits giving zero fucks About children in cages?
Of World War I? Or World War II? Or World War III? And change?
Do we tell stories of monsters lurking in the dark because we cannot feel the difference between weather and climate? Do we tell of coercive fuckings that Climb into your heart and by god, Out of your phallus, lest they mock that tiny little joke with their kisses and their love.
But it is no love that drives the repeat. Cruelty and abuse drive these memes. And when I say the word —
I’m a little bitch.
And when I say the word, I’m toxic. Because only little bitches won’t allow for this. Because only toxic men would want fidelity. Duh.
So what am I? Am I the original? Or the repeat? It doesn’t really matter, does it? It all comes out in the wash.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat till you die.
Or they kill you.