There never was anything beautiful about
caribous or
lesbians.
That's what art is for,
and good thing he hates painting.
But he likes foul mouths and petite girls
and Chevy trucks.
So I cower in your presence and let your anger shoot inside of me.
Anger like lava or acid or the liquid of hell.
It seers through me.
It seeps into my veins and
sponges into my cartilage and
threads through every tendon in my muscles and flows over my heart and stomach
and boils me from the inside out.
You may be his sound board,
but you're nothing more than a ***** he uses to make me jealous.
You may have been in his mind for the night
but only because I was busy.
You may think you're wedging yourself in between him and me
like a tick
but you're only giving yourself
Lime's disease.
I hope you rot from the inside out,
starting with your black heart and ending with your
poisonous lips.
Let the buzzards eat your liver
and I'll devour your soul.