I want to missile my motion into a tunnel of a gun, drag my head in circles so slow, and tell you to kiss the words right out of me. Sometimes, I react in a push; pushing myself up to my throat with a knife spaced evenly out in narrow-tasted heads of candy licked sticks and dives of veins into cut stripped skin.
Faced in pattern, as if, somehow this tight burn of loose liquid could easily slide its warm acid down my throat and into my guts; swinging on my organs like it has no deal or it has no conscious to release me from stumblin