it's only a little bit like a toothache when your
eyes well over in that muted, melancholy way.
i had so sorely forgotten this place
the anxiety, fresh like a cresting wave
that languid boil in my throat
the therapist tells me that I have to take deep breaths and
hold myself where it burns, tenderly
but i always end up choking myself.
limp attempts to strangle the fervent clamor
my brain revolves a harrowing dialogue,
masquerading as novel thoughts
this afternoon i stood, back to the sweat-slicked masses
my own mess of rank and fear dripping from brow to navel
tears vaporizing mid-air before they could season the eggs
and i realized in the most painful way
that the pallid, grease-burned hands stroking my neck
in some strange semblance of comfort
might as well be his,
they should have cremated him.
i ache to hold reverence on the same ground in which he rots.
you were humming between my legs while i twitched and gasped and then i burst into tears. wracking sobs, really, the kind that make my chest hitch and your mouth kept hitting my ***** bone while i shook, orgasming and crying.
i want to say a lot of things about the why, how and of course and to be honest with you and i think
but my lips are too swollen with his death. his bloated corpse is hiding in my throat, slicing up my insides, and i'm so ******* allergic, can't you see in the ways my hands flail and my eyes bulge?
all the lengths of my skin are boiling,
your validation a soothing salve
for a moment, before dissipating in my wretched heat
can't you see that this all fell into place decades ago? from the very first time you had somewhere better to be, someone else who needed your time and space, i was already burning.
so small and slight, trembling just a little bit.
it was you you YOU
all of you, now dead and rotting or just as good as
i refuse to join you.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
it's only a little bit like a toothache when your
eyes well over in that muted, melancholy way.
i had so sorely forgotten this place
the anxiety, fresh like a cresting wave
that languid boil in my throat
the therapist tells me that I have to take deep breaths and
hold myself where it burns, tenderly
but i always end up choking myself.
limp attempts to strangle the fervent clamor
my brain revolves a harrowing dialogue,
masquerading as novel thoughts
this afternoon i stood, back to the sweat-slicked masses
my own mess of rank and fear dripping from brow to navel
tears vaporizing mid-air before they could season the eggs
and i realized in the most painful way
that the pallid, grease-burned hands stroking my neck
in some strange semblance of comfort
might as well be his,
they should have cremated him.
i ache to hold reverence on the same ground in which he rots.
you were humming between my legs while i twitched and gasped and then i burst into tears. wracking sobs, really, the kind that make my chest hitch and your mouth kept hitting my ***** bone while i shook, orgasming and crying.
i want to say a lot of things about the why, how and of course and to be honest with you and i think
but my lips are too swollen with his death. his bloated corpse is hiding in my throat, slicing up my insides, and i'm so ******* allergic, can't you see in the ways my hands flail and my eyes bulge?
all the lengths of my skin are boiling,
your validation a soothing salve
for a moment, before dissipating in my wretched heat
can't you see that this all fell into place decades ago? from the very first time you had somewhere better to be, someone else who needed your time and space, i was already burning.
so small and slight, trembling just a little bit.
it was you you YOU
all of you, now dead and rotting or just as good as
i refuse to join you.
i hurt all over.
