shakinghandsmedia

There is a women that bleeds me dry.
Cutting open my veins, she drenches my pillow
then lays my head down so I can sleep.
I prick my finger with the needle that created love made out of fabric.
Such a thing that provides warmth and safety.
 As I think of her lying under it, deep in slumber,
I think of love and murder
and cock and vagina
and sorrow and joy and comfort
or lack there of.
My stomach flushes as I’m seized with terror.
I think of our future and our present.
Both scare me equally.
Masturbating our emotions, we strive to be kind.
Ash and smoke surround our bodies and burn our eyes
yet we cannot provide relief.
Or at least we choose not to.
The home she has built with my leaves sometimes makes me weep
for I feel the future in the pit of my stomach
and I can’t help but puke up all the feelings I once had for her.
Unwanted phone calls have become all I am now.
Yet the hope of returning to a past treasure keeps my heart warm.
So I will pack up a plastic suitcase with an extra shirt
and make my way to her exclusive house
while her home is a million miles away.
And continue to drip salt and cum alone
with my Ginsberg in the next room.