The Evolution of Language

Only I can see it. They’re like tumors. They bulge from the apex of the back of their head.
Here it remains dormant.

The eyes are relaxed, once shifty eyed, now slightly glazed. The pink candy bubblegum turns grey. The bubble grows, I can see the tumor perched on the back of her skull slowly deflate, slowly, it is consumed.

Elsewhere, I see it burst from his lips. Spewing like puss from a straining pimple.
“BITCH”
The letters wrap around the walls of the expanding bubble gum. The pink goo from her pursued lips is stained. A single drop of black dye
in a rainbow
makes grey.

It’s thick. It pops, oil dripping down her supple frame.
It’s acidic, the clothing burns away and she stands fragile, naked.

The tar streaks her skin.

As the syllable is finished, and the teeth and the tongue collide with the final “tch.”

The match dropped at her feet, she bursts into flame. She wails, running to the faces around her, but the men don’t know what it’s like to burn, and the women are silenced behind their candy bubble gum. Behind that dull demeanor, they pray for the health of their burning sister.

Her skin blisters, her body cries, pus dripping out of the swelling boils. They pass, avoid eye contact.

A modest pile of cigarette ash in the corner. It’s only a passing moment and she’s made again. She rises from the ashes, a new tumor on the back of her head, and bubble gum inflating from her chapped lips.

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