You dragged infidelity out to the street and beat it. None of this will make a difference, none of the hair pulling. There is something about you that makes me want to carry a switchblade and strawberry flavored lip-gloss. I don’t care if you resent making breakfast in the morning; this relationship is real. Do not bury us. Not unless there is a bottle of Jameson around and plenty of us. What is it about those three colors that make you want to leave me, huh? I’m inconsolable and damn you really are sturdy. Poor mute, statue. You are the subject of poetry and tragedy. I’m so current affairs. Neon made a comeback. So willing to make it work.
Your language used me like a bar napkin, kid. Here I am in the bathroom, all grit. Mascara smudging and impossible. So fragile: my ankles in these shoes. I don’t understand how they don’t just snap. That’s the way your powers work. In the Spring it is the same, those brave little buds breaking through the frost and confusing whether. I’m unstable and the music keeps me lulled, like you body of water. Only men and women here in a basement. Isn’t it funny? We always descend to do our work, as humans. We go internal, all memory in the ground.
2 comments:
Reading your shit is like seeing an old lover that I never got over. I miss writing with you.:(
I just revisited your blog. We still have more in common than either of thinks. Yarn. Ha!
Post a Comment