It’s pathetic really, I know,
that I’d live off the scraps of you,
the hand-me-down, half cares and
“hullo’s” you’d throw while I scramble
for your neck in the dark, and ****
you for “just out of reach” and
mumbles under mountains of
day and dream, fervor-filled anthologies
built on your hands and the
consequent shadows cast.
I never got to taste you,
but I imagine it’s something
like 16 and gasoline. The question isn’t
what we really want. We want a
blood bath, the world in flames, but we
cry when the red doesn't come out
of the towels. It's just who we are.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
It’s pathetic really, I know,
that I’d live off the scraps of you,
the hand-me-down, half cares and
“hullo’s” you’d throw while I scramble
for your neck in the dark, and ****
you for “just out of reach” and
mumbles under mountains of
day and dream, fervor-filled anthologies
built on your hands and the
consequent shadows cast.
I never got to taste you,
but I imagine it’s something
like 16 and gasoline. The question isn’t
what we really want. We want a
blood bath, the world in flames, but we
cry when the red doesn't come out
of the towels. It's just who we are.
