Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would






Stop staring at yourself.

Stop it.

Right now.

Who said you were good enough to like yourself so damn much?

Who?! Tell me!

I’ll tell you what, they’re wrong. Dead wrong. You are nothing but a piece of shit.

You think you’ll be something someday don’t you?

With that stupid song and that stupid smile.

You stupid little bitch.

You will never be anything, anything at all but a worthless slut. A fucking looser. . .

Now. . . Pull up your pants. . . and if you tell your mother I will kill you.