I let the water wash away my sex. I let my thoughts drift in and out of stories and dimensions. There’s a primitive scent about me. There’s water circling the drain like crows circle the dead. All I know is I’m going in the ground with a fight and I hope something gives, so you die fighting too. I’ve got too many lists of things to do before I go. There’s a teetering for the things below my top few priorities. The social expectations that make their way into my heart. The shit heads that have a gleam in their eye like no other. And then, there’s the guilty pleasures that do nothing for my growth. They twist and spin and fuck me raw just to tell me they’ll never love me. But I always go back for more. These seasons. This restless mouth. And searching eyes that wilt when watered by a screen. I’m nothing special. My writing could take me no where. I’m washed up. But I’m alive and living with not one ounce of shame. I’ve said my I’m-sorrys. But if to kill me is what you need, pull the trigger, I’m on my fucking knees.
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