f/18/nyc brain vomit
people and their cupboards..
junk, secrets stowed away
these months and years.
you won’t be impressed, almost
fully organic salt, unsent notes,
bitten off hair, pregnancy test,
bottles of cheap hidden wine,
unfinished books, confusion,
things I, eventually, paid the price for,
disappointment in every medium possible.
I never ask for a lot. I’ve never been one to. I don’t need that Nicholas Sparks shit.
I am in a perpetual state of boredom and I’d like the feeling of flying, crashing, then, burning. I’ve always enjoyed the heat and I don’t understand the concept of waiting.
I am a summer affair. I want passion and I want a lot of it and I want it so that it is not the fleeting kind. I need it to leave marks long after it inevitably leaves. Like those triangles that love stay on beach girls. I need it to stick like sand on sweaty skin.
Like the ants crawling up limbs.
Everyone wants refuge, mine just happen to lie amongst men who can only love me with their hands and mouths. Men who spark my stomach and I don’t even want to regurgitate. I want the goosebumps kind of passion, so gripping.. it is so reluctant to leave.
But I can’t just stick my hand out and have it, now can I?
I’ve got to stick my whole damned neck.