Carcinogenic gasps between photogenic thighs create esoteric muscle movement that moves me inside. Your parents are therapists, and mine choose not to be alive; the words they say don't work for moments we hide.
Jesus Christ before the sunset rust, if I'm so alive then why do I lust absence.
There's a place where I'd like to drown every Saturday. The water's warm and thick in my lungs and I'm no longer afraid.
Colliding with epinephrine, your neck thrusts forward; you kiss the steering wheel. "Do you know how much you mean to me?" Your eyes meet mineΒ Β before disappearing in the glass mist. I love you.