Affection At The Tip Of A Cigarette
I want to make love to you like a dental surgeon going to work; I want to fuck you up on drugs and stick stuff in your mouth as you struggle to be understood.
Yeah, you struggle to be understood, like all that poetry from my high school era. What the hell was the point? What the hell was the plot?
My plot for you is purely pornographic; it’s about getting paid, or fixing something that’s broken.
I feel broken; broke; unpaid. Unlaid, like a pile of bricks.
Yeah, I’m gonna come down on you. Like a pile of pricks.
I’m gonna come. Gonna go down on you. Like a pile of bricks.
I want to make love to you and make you forget me when I’m gone. I want to be the empty feeling inside you that you try to fill with other men and Mexican food. I want to be the thing that goes down your throat when you’re feeling bulimic. I want to be the last bullet in your gun; the one you’ll use on yourself as the undead horde breaks in past the walls and closes in on you.
I want you to love me with a fierce, unyielding sort of love. Something I can never beat out of you.
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