I'm circling the spongy surface of my memory,
Trying to underline the part
Where your touch became too rough
But I wanted you to pull my hair anyway.
Where you stopped wanting to touch me
But wanted me to continue touching you.
Where I am left standing alone, knee deep
In my fiery *****
As Plath would say.
A sad and broken piece of machinery
A rusty, wet tractor left in the wilderness
Asking the vines for some sort of final mercy.
I want to underline it,
So I know it was real all along.

He said, "I had a girlfriend
Who couldn't ***
SHE was SO ****** up."

I whispered, "that makes me feel
really good." I couldn't look at him.

I don't know if he got the sarcasm.
I don't know if I will get the,
No that,
Monster out of my mind.
Vines, please give me some sort of
Final mercy.