Right Down to The Filter
There's a scent that lingers about the pads of my fingertips.
Smeared on the lapels, twisting circles in the texture of brown leather, and it is doing dances through my nostrils.
Holding poison in the hollows of my palm.
And the smell is digging holes in the cannals of my mind.
Every twist and turn.
I remember, pressed against cold walls. Feet digging in the concrete.
And the smell hanging in the curtains.
O'er my eyes.
My dark lashes, heavy, tell of forbidden vices, the one I chose in boredom.
Some cold December day.
Hiding around dumpsters.
Shaking shoulders.
Writing down the memory with the tip of my tongue, stuck out upon the air, tasting dances around my lips.
Smiling for her, and putting it into files.
My first time.
I touch my fingers to my mouth and breathe in all these tied together, strings of disease holding me closer to a smile and a sob.
Like smoke upon the cold wind, biting.
Smeared on the lapels, twisting circles in the texture of brown leather, and it is doing dances through my nostrils.
Holding poison in the hollows of my palm.
And the smell is digging holes in the cannals of my mind.
Every twist and turn.
I remember, pressed against cold walls. Feet digging in the concrete.
And the smell hanging in the curtains.
O'er my eyes.
My dark lashes, heavy, tell of forbidden vices, the one I chose in boredom.
Some cold December day.
Hiding around dumpsters.
Shaking shoulders.
Writing down the memory with the tip of my tongue, stuck out upon the air, tasting dances around my lips.
Smiling for her, and putting it into files.
My first time.
I touch my fingers to my mouth and breathe in all these tied together, strings of disease holding me closer to a smile and a sob.
Like smoke upon the cold wind, biting.