my dreams are boiled
and scorched up
like a fever blister on the lip
of an anarchist
on the seventh consecutive day of
ozzfest

i'm hot and i am bothered
like the knickers of
the old french ***** who lives
upstairs
in every grimy novel
ever published

the lips on my face
are puckered and raw
like the *******
of every ****** in prison
because
we've been kissing
for weeks now,
lying naked and careless
like the bright setting sun
splashing the floor of your room
with sweat
and ***
and primal laughter

now i'm standing on your doorstep
wet from the rain
wanting
one
more
sunburned mosquito bite.

i am like a water droplet
fearfully gripped
to the lip of a paper cup,
the same as you are
like a delicate kiss poised
on mine.

except i am not made of
purity and clarity,
instead i am
a convoluted storm
of desperate confusion and
utter disbelief
and depression,
and you are just
a delicate kiss poisoned
by mine.