snippet to k.m.
6:36 p.m.

i've got to talk about this. damn you, you're vile. a disease of a generation of listless, wealthy, sloth snobs who know everything from the uppercrust-cocaine-angling-shindigs to the welfare-herbalized-field-gatherings. i'm sure you've played it all, spent weekends drowning in powders and dried leaves and semen and the drip, drip, drip of the next phallic needle.

i know all of this of you without asking or wanting to.

so this is what i will ask. cipher my desire for you.

you range at me with smaller things. with tiny beauties. with works of art that surpass what i'd like to remember seeing. legends that you cannot keep in your mouth. trends and fear that you twist in my gut like jagged knives. letting your lustful youth overpower any logic, you simply run as if the tongs of age will not grab you the same. invincible. young. assimilated.

if not for your voice and occasional soft chord i would be able to loathe you comfortably. and you alway shut those moments out short, selling your words into a slurred catch-phrase until i cannot beg my lips to do more than run foul with your name.

dead eyes, dead eyes, are you just like me?

i am not your photocopy, i waste my wandering on truants of romantic ages, forgotten weather, and far-off landscapes that resemble darkened times. i do not make haste of 18. i do not make haste of a body that is barely known to me, maturing, and friendly.

the thickening of my skin will be complete when i can gaze across at your sullen, skulking smirk, your deliciously exposed belly, and spit.

take back your love of my gods. take back your xeroxed promises. take back your existence until we are both in fourth grade again. i remember the blues and greens of the hallways, the smells that aren't quite there until i meet them again, and i remember your rainbowbrite blonde hair.

bleach back your sanity for the sanctity of my animosity. reddening like madness, you fly like the wind in my mind, sick, sick, sick. Get out fiend, whore! 17 has more to offer than a bathroom, a bedroom, and a backdoor all with dying dirty condoms on the floor.

get your mind from meeting mine, harlot, for a love tempted such as you to i is not only furiously dangerous, but greatly unwanted. be no longer the piano silhouette rhyming across my mind, become pure black like the perfection of villians, goblins, and fat trolls. go back where you belong, subconcious, and offer me no more the relentless calling of my name because who you offer your interest to belongs not to my shoulders. fie that you were invented in such an age.

pox upon your beaten, broken, clitoris-swollen, golden door knob.

<< - >>