I'm typing in lowercase letters but dreaming in capitals.
i'm swallowing pills and alcohol to numb the pain hoping for solitude in a bottle.
you're cute, i think?
sitting over there at the bar staring at me like i could be someone you want to get to know.
you're cute, i think?
but baby, i'm just a drunk girl at a bar taking too many drugs to even care about what your name is so please stop talking.
you slide over a glass of scotch, neat and cold, disgusting as i drink it down.
you keep talking about how pretty my eyes are and how cute my hair is and where'd i get that nice dress and why is a cute girl like you at a bar all alone.
please... stop talking.
your hand is creeping up my thigh, and I'm too numb to stop you
the pills are kicking in and you are starting to look like him...
If i drink a little more maybe i can stomach going home with you and drowning my pain with lust.
but for the love of god, please stop talking.
he left three months ago, took his clothes and a toothbrush and headed out.
he kissed my cheek... he said he'd be on the next train home as soon as he could and left with no explanation.
he's married now.
his kids are cute.
he named one after me... which is disgusting and i wonder if his wife knows.
you are still there... wonderful.
i take one last swig of liquor and grab your hand; stumbling from the bar and slurring my words.
i laugh, because it's cute when girls laugh right?
you smile -- and i really can't tell are you ugly or not?
who fucking cares.
i'm typing in lowercase letters dreaming in capitals.
i'm going to go home with this man and pretend he's you.
cheers to drowning out the noise in lust and liquor.
It's when in presence
My heart gallops fast horses
On these lengthy tracks,
You draw me in close
I smell the sweet aroma
Bearing on senses,
I can't feel your touch
But I know it draws so near
I pull you closely,
Nibbling your ear
Tasting your skin on my tongue,
Your body tingles I can
Forms from your heart as you push
Against my warm chest,
As our lips sow stories of
Devotion with fire,
We edge into a
Never ending spiral of
Painted encore tales
And constant passionate dreams
she thought who am i
there are so many of me
am i not veils and masks
even to myself
like a locked box
am i not peopled
with miscreant brooding hordes
of shadow selves
whispering gods and demons
taking space up within
like a coffin attic bedroom
to be rented out
for some wayward spectral family
oh children of the night
black quilled throwing porcupines
players of dismal warbled music
that sounds like nails scratching floor boards
in the cold dread dead of night
at Holiday Hells Inn
see me she thought
am i not
an icon of responsibility
sweet and good
engraving angels on silver
making all sacred in the marvelous calm
wouldn't hurt a fly
not me oh my
showered and smelling like
she the feminist
her favorite words
until her fingers sneak down her pants
feeling like a flowery beautiful woman
who weeps to be naked
raked over desires hot coals
and forced to worship
big cocked men
to be engorged voluptuously
like a stuffed butter ball turkey
until her eyes roll back
like white sticks shuttering
where gratitude is met
with bay rum and vodka tongues
a celebration of thanksgiving
and thanks is really given
with a star performance
lubricated for the baking oven
garnished with pineapple
tipping head over heels
at dizzying heights
hanging from a swinging chandelier
upside down girl
doing butter cunt splits
to be scraped off walls and ceilings
like whipping cream whipped
and subsumed in the perfect power and glory
your cunt is not disgusting at all
thats all he can seem to apologize for.
i'm so happy among the screaming and aggression
that my womanhood
is not disgusting.
it's not like you didn't tell me to kill myself
and ill be honest i was already half way there
when i heard that sentence run off your fucking mouth.
how fucking dare you.
i should of been more angry with you
i shouldn't have let you kiss my beautiful rose
with your disgusting, unworthy mouth.
you want to claim respect yet you had none to offer
you're toxic, and every woman knows it.
that's why there was only me.
and now that i've learnt, you'll have no one
until you learn.
You have all kinds of different girls.
You have the girly girls who love fairy tales.
You have the punk ones that love everything black.
You have those country southern charms who love cowboys and pick up trucks.
Which one do i fit in? I don't even know.
Because my hair is always messy and I can't get away from country music.
Because I hate big cities and I love romance like it's my child.
I love every single animal and would take every one in if my father allowed it.
I hate how much money celebrities make when I see children starving and adults feeling like no-bodies.
I love to daydream and dream at night.
I keep giving my father chances because I hate seeing him tired and sad
I secretly write about his mistakes and the effects they make
I love depressing music like Lana Del Rey
and I'm a girl who prays.
I love everyone and everything.
That is except one person...
My boyfriend's wife...
Yeah. She acts like she's a queen and she shows him off like he's her trophy.
She has a perfect reputation, and somehow she makes him stay.
But.. She's nothing like me.
She looks at me like I'm a spoiled wanna-be
I'm pretty positive that she secretly hates me
She plays him like a video game, because she makes all the shots.
He should have no requests. She gives him nothing that he actually likes.
I think she lost her sexuality...
But that's okay because her man now has me.
His penis gets hard for me.
Faster for me.
But it's not only that...
His heart longs for me.
And one day... I will bang him so hard and so loud... You'll be wishing that you were nicer to me.
I'm the type of girl who knows what I want...
And your husband... Well... Let's just say he really wants to fuck me.
The sex of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the pot you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.
i've watched him bleed emotions in the way he holds his beer;
like a lover too potent to choke down but not sweet enough to finish
he is the side effect of the phrase
"kids can be cruel"
and i've spent nights searching for a warning label tucked in between his ribs,
expecting to find her name under
but he won't let me close enough to find it
he fucks like he wants to forget,
but I don't much mind because i'm just trying to remember,
remember what it's like to feel that the stars are something someone built for me in their garden shed
but i grew up believing nobody would ever fall in love with me,
and he's too busy dragging his feet across the bar to notice the way she looks at him
i can hear the faded tunes of children singing
"words will never hurt me,"
while we empty ourselves onto sex stained sheets
don't tell me that hurts less than a broken bone
i want to tell him that we are not stalled cars sitting abandoned on the highway,
and if in some way we are,
we only got out to walk and get gas
i want to tell him that this is just debris,
but he's already half way down the street,
substituting prayers for broken fingers and i can't run fast enough to put a cast around his broken wrists and sign it
"THEY WERE WRONG"