Nothing but hate, nothing but rage.
I don't feel like I should have to preface this at all, but I probably should because sometimes I don't realize how little you all actually know about me.
Erica posted this publicly on the internet and I found it without really expecting to.
Drunk rants that have potential.
[[Thursday, 8 July 2010]]
We hug. A goodbye. We were always bad at goodbyes.
Take one breath of me. I take one breath of you. We’re gone.
My hands tighten around those hips I’ve grown to memorize. I know that 270 degree angle with my fingertips in the air, like a guitarist without her instrument.
Your hands in my hair.
I don’t wear the same cologne. You don’t wear the same perfume. But I smell the blue in you. The sadness and confusion and rage and sex. We breathe in each other. Breathe in the confusion and rage. And sex.
You’re up against the wall and I know exactly what to do.
That back haunts me.
Those leaves.
I knew they would turn with the seasons. But I tried to fight them.
Muscular motion distorts the colors, greens and purples and browns.
Don’t look at me.
Don’t look at you.
We know where to go but we don’t want to let the world know we remember.
She’s so heavy.
I will fuck you until you forget.
I will whimper into that soft olive skin, speak love and lust to the follicles that dance on your epidermis.
You will always be mine.
I close my eyes. Squeeze my thighs tight. Take a deep breath. And trace your hip, your spine, your hairline, your calves, your ribcage in the air.
And a couple hundred miles away, as she’s asleep beside you.
You’ll wake up with chills. Clench a nearby pillow. Bite into it. Grind the air. And think.
What the fuck happened?
If there were better words, more intense words, to use in place of "FUCK. YOU.," I would use them.
Erica posted this publicly on the internet and I found it without really expecting to.
Drunk rants that have potential.
[[Thursday, 8 July 2010]]
We hug. A goodbye. We were always bad at goodbyes.
Take one breath of me. I take one breath of you. We’re gone.
My hands tighten around those hips I’ve grown to memorize. I know that 270 degree angle with my fingertips in the air, like a guitarist without her instrument.
Your hands in my hair.
I don’t wear the same cologne. You don’t wear the same perfume. But I smell the blue in you. The sadness and confusion and rage and sex. We breathe in each other. Breathe in the confusion and rage. And sex.
You’re up against the wall and I know exactly what to do.
That back haunts me.
Those leaves.
I knew they would turn with the seasons. But I tried to fight them.
Muscular motion distorts the colors, greens and purples and browns.
Don’t look at me.
Don’t look at you.
We know where to go but we don’t want to let the world know we remember.
She’s so heavy.
I will fuck you until you forget.
I will whimper into that soft olive skin, speak love and lust to the follicles that dance on your epidermis.
You will always be mine.
I close my eyes. Squeeze my thighs tight. Take a deep breath. And trace your hip, your spine, your hairline, your calves, your ribcage in the air.
And a couple hundred miles away, as she’s asleep beside you.
You’ll wake up with chills. Clench a nearby pillow. Bite into it. Grind the air. And think.
What the fuck happened?
If there were better words, more intense words, to use in place of "FUCK. YOU.," I would use them.