(no subject)
An unfortunate last few days, sick and vomiting like no other. My throat is so raw that my limited intake of cigarettes leaves me irritated quite often.
Finally feeling better after I was forced to leave behind my propensity for cruising the doctors of Independence Blvd. Started listening to Twista... afterwards. Bizarre, no?
I look clean today. Even... dare I say, sober? Like, someone who has just recovered from their teenage years ironically idolizing prepubescent trends? You know, the girls who used to wear Care Bear shirts and Blues Clues pajama pants to high school. The girls who will never touch anything impure in their lives. I felt like that a little today. I'm scared for my life.
I keep backing in and out of paramour, with, anamnesis of you. Collections of touches, words, images all... fossilized in the back of my head, I listen to Morphine and you're like a kitten at my neck. My mouth waters with your kisses, un-apprehended. But then. It's not like your screaming doesn't still echo through in ripples, or. That fucking disappointed ego look. So. Yeah. I don't know. It's just. In and out. Back and forth. And. I'm the one who is going to die knowing what I know about you. And, I'll feel heavy and sinful and regretful, while you'll just die lonely. Lucky bastard.
My ability to experience anything genuine has atrophied since then, and. I know it's going to be a long ways getting back.
Finally feeling better after I was forced to leave behind my propensity for cruising the doctors of Independence Blvd. Started listening to Twista... afterwards. Bizarre, no?
I look clean today. Even... dare I say, sober? Like, someone who has just recovered from their teenage years ironically idolizing prepubescent trends? You know, the girls who used to wear Care Bear shirts and Blues Clues pajama pants to high school. The girls who will never touch anything impure in their lives. I felt like that a little today. I'm scared for my life.
I keep backing in and out of paramour, with, anamnesis of you. Collections of touches, words, images all... fossilized in the back of my head, I listen to Morphine and you're like a kitten at my neck. My mouth waters with your kisses, un-apprehended. But then. It's not like your screaming doesn't still echo through in ripples, or. That fucking disappointed ego look. So. Yeah. I don't know. It's just. In and out. Back and forth. And. I'm the one who is going to die knowing what I know about you. And, I'll feel heavy and sinful and regretful, while you'll just die lonely. Lucky bastard.
My ability to experience anything genuine has atrophied since then, and. I know it's going to be a long ways getting back.