shakinghandsmedia

I lie awake at night dreading the stained paper that controls my life.
My life and my lover.
And her desire controls my emotions
sending them spiraling down until the only thing
that would make me feel better is to hurt her.
And yet that would make me feels twice as bad.
I imagine my hands around her neck.
I imagine her in a bathroom stall.
I imagine kissing her neck.
I imagine fucking her against the wall.
I see her face and she’s crying because I have killed her.
She cut me open for the last time and I killed her for it.
My brain screaming back upon itself and sending me into fits of sweat and boners.
Yet my hand never cramps anymore.
I see stains of cum and buffalo sauce on my sheets.
One much more recent than the other.
I scroll through my mind trying to remember her hand around me.
I imagine the top of her head. Running my fingers through her hair
and desperately trying to keep my eyes open to watch.
Yet they slam shut, sending me into darkened pleasure.
Strange noises escape through my mouth as I make love to her feet.
Drinking electric eels that go straight to my head
as secrets are revealed and ashamed I am no longer.
I am in love with her and every part of her.
I remember our nakedness in a Kohl’s dressing room.
Feeling your skin and trying to keep my mouth shut.
It’s almost her birthday and I have no money to spend.
So I apologize and kiss her in return.
She is ashamed of me and I of her.
Yet when I look at her, I stop seeing death.
My best friend for all these years is suddenly gone
and replaced only with her.
Sweat and booze and puke become natural to us.
Jealousy and rage are never too far away.
Harps and haircuts and Killers can never compare.
But I still find myself weeping at the thought of what she really is.