Some days I just barely stay in my skin, I want to take this inner dialogue and let it loose to fuck, bite, tear and breathe, this inner dialogue is so tight and raw to the touch, every paper that you read tells you to batten the hatches
Keep it all in mind, let it go with a sour stench of whiskey blows to the unexposed areas.
That sweat extortion thrown into the path
of believing that oestrogen
When all I really want is an interactive, aggressive, impactful fuck without flowers, to tear out the impotence and take it’s hardened edges to blunt against my madness.
The rustling eyebrow gaze of unremitting judgment lose in some primal, moistened moment over and discarded in favour of benign, diminished disdain
You are so fucking special, you matter, you’re matter to me, you see through these lies… Right?
I let you fuck because I cannot fuck you… You see that perfect soul… right?
All this talk, talk, talk and all I wish is that you would just drive this losing streak from me as opposed to the singing sweetness and honeysuckle dried out words that are supposed to provoke baseless, blank serenity.