i used to love the smell of gasoline.
eight years old,
suede seats,
breathing in as my mother filled the tank.

yesterday,
as i took my mother's place
eleven years later,
gasoline smells like *****.

as i inhaled,
insects buzzing akin to the fluorescent lights above,
it reeked of my lack of inhibitions.
my lack of restraint.
my inability to keep myself away from you.
and yet
i would still go out of my way
to keep the fragrance near me.

you are gasoline.
you are *****.
you are the empty svedka bottle lying on the floor.

your beautiful, beautiful liquid poison rots my ribs.
i am slowly killing myself for you
but i'll be ******
because i can't stop reeling us counting constellations
within my spinning projector mind.

there are so many reasons as to why i should stop myself.
hell,
you're the reason for the never-healing cat scratches on my forearm,
but you're an effortless mosaic of a human being.

your laughter is light.
internally you are genuine.
i can only see the flowers in your eyes
and yet they are nonetheless poisonous.

i hope that one day
i can turn your storm clouds
to warm rain.

all the better for dancing.