I have to shower soon, and every breath of wind
that brushes against my ***** skin
reminds me of everything
I hope they don't tell you about this morning.


I smell like sweat and *****,
and all I want is a redo.
I want "may I?" eyes.

Write when you're drunk, edit when you're sober,
Right?

Here is
Unedited.

"Are we playing
Kings rules,
Or ******* a ****?"

Here is
Friday night.

So this is how it goes every time,
right? We've got bodies in the backseat.
We've got luggage stacked tenfold
on the roof.
How can you expect me not
to break, when all I've ever
been carrying is still
not
good enough.

Three cheers for
guilt.
One for the
words
that never
come without a
stutter,
maybe "He can
never
know" or
"I'm only using
you" as he
slides off every dress
you've ever worn
and you
lie
through your
teeth.
One for,
finally,
rough hands and maybe
the thought that
Is this what a
man
feels like?
Sandpaper and strength
in all the wrong places.
And one
last
sad
solid
cheer,
that will ring no place
except in my head
where it may
or may not
echo
echo
echo,
for each night
I spend loaded
and want it to
happen again.



*the splash of your tongue against mine.

The three things I remember;
The splash of my tongue
against his
after those eyes,
those "may I?"
eyes, the splash
of my tongue
against his
melting me like a
candy cane.
A loose glove,
and a lighter heating
it- the latex
shrinking,
clinging
to my hand.
And the feeling in my
gut.
Similar to both memories,
like
jumping off a bridge,
or
hanging upside down.
Or the sound you make
when you try to ask for help
(or ask permission)
and only breath
comes
out.

And on the days
He lacks to shave,
I find it right
to compromise,
The only way
I'll feel his scruff,
is rough against
my thighs.

Have you ever been on a carousel and
forgotten about the spinning?
Same scenery over and over,
but your brain hardly even notices.
You just keep going.
Past the same faces and same places
and all the same feeling.
But you just keep going because it hasn't
stopped yet, you haven't gotten your
twenty-five cents worth of repetition.
And I've been chained to this carousel for so long,
the shackles are starting to look like jewelry.
When the sun sets and when they turn the lights on it is
no longer blinding. I'm used to the beauty.
All I want is to get off. I want to travel deep
into the woods. I see the trees I pass by over and over.
All I want is to get lost in them. I want something new.
But I know,
I know,
I know,
That they may be trees.
But it will be tree after tree after tree.
And I'll just find myself chained to another
carousel.