Can you make me care again? Pinch my earlobe hard and pull me close, whisper that shit that peels the enamel off my brain. I want to bite your big painted lips and laugh like clowns do, silent like. To feel your hot breath on my neck as I carry you piggy back into the river, to feel you clawing at my back as I take us both down to the bottom where the discarded dreams lie, rubbed smooth by the current conservative line of reasoning. (Rocks in my pockets a 9mm in my sock.). When the last of the oxygen has been shuffled out and the blue baby blue comes over our faces I’ll release you and you’ll rise dream like to the top. That’s right baby because I love you because I’ll never have been so close to you as I am right before I die. I think it would be special for you to experience, you know, so you can tell your grandchildren and shit what its like to see a writer die…
5 comments:
i want to see what it's like for a writer to live.
oh, that's hot.
that had me shivering.
trans shivering is such an ohmything
I think her grandkids will like that story... quite.
Post a Comment