Give Me Your Mouthful And Make It Matter
Cruelty was her only kindness; “I love you, I love you, I love you,” she says it over and over again, writing it across my skin with the tip of her knife. I love her, I love her, I love her need to hurt me deeper and deeper each day.
I’m so cool and so removed. I’m so into her, I’m so deep into her, its like we’re lovers, or strangers who’ve been paid to fuck in front of the cameras. Invisible cameras; the eyes of the world.
Watching us. Watching us. Watching us fall in love.
She loves with her skin, her mouth, her growing sense of abandonment. She stands, scowling in the mist of the room, undressing like a sulky stripper. She sits, on the edge of the conversation, painting her fingernails with baby’s blood. Her last victims semen still dripping from the pauses in her phrases.
When Is This Turning Into Something Else?
God, how long have we been watching this movie? Is this a date, or a prison sentence?
Okay, so I woke up early this morning, with a girl I didn’t recognize, dying in bed next to me, dying from boredom and disappointment.
I rolled off the mattress quoting song lyrics like I was in a music video nobody else could see. You were my camera, you were what I was walking and talking into.
I walked into the bathroom and I urinated and pretended to comb my hair when I was really just admiring myself in the mirror. My face reminds me of a book of love poems; I don’t really know why, but it just does. I stick out my tongue and I stick out in a crowd.
I want to spit in the camera, I want break my face on the fourth wall.
I want come, willingly, along with you, into the next chapter.