Jen, Nothing Matters to Me
don't be afraid of finding someone else, i'm not sure i'll ever need you.
so, what would you do? what would you say? how would it sound when your lips separated from mine to recollect and reload the ghosts that escape and mingle like cigarette smoke with my tongue pressed into yours above and between us? where would you place your feet when you made tiny, uneven movements like a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-the-other-in-your-mouth, two-timing dancer balanced on rope but confident without a net? would you wear your red heels and dance in the woods? would you, could you, cold-cock me for lying when the evidence is smeared bloodily across our bodies? some of them want to abuse you, but some of them want to be abused. i just want to use you. i just want to know what's inside you.
i rattle and hum, and you can too. a single night that sent me upside down and three worlds twisting like the three tongues that met on foreign grounds to taste salt and flesh, sweet and sour, and between lips and tongues are bliss and torture and sometimes the two aren't so far apart if your head is on straight and even when it's not. we were cosmonauts diving between the sheets and into the fiery wet limits of our own hedonism, like when i was a boy and would go swimming at the lake and would go right up to the edge, where the roped buoys kept us pinned and close, and i would quickly duck under and tread water on the outside, seeing how long i could go before the fear of being spotted and called to by my grandparents became too much and i retreated back into the synthetic arms. because we were all so close to overflowing and opportunists, i suppose, used and abused, because it can be so much fun to play the victim and to play the victor spoiling.
what you won't do, i will. i want to drag blades across my bare chest and suck the barrell of a shotgun. i want to feel the emptiest void and then fill it with all creation. i want to carry the music and images that i draw up so effortlessly in my dreams and right before i fall asleep into my consciousness complete. i want to not want anything at all.
now i'm home alone for the week, have about half a fifth of Jim Beam calling my name, and an insane amount of work i'm supposed to do [but won't] tonight, and no one to share any of it with.
oh, mary, mary, to be this young is oh so scary.
so, what would you do? what would you say? how would it sound when your lips separated from mine to recollect and reload the ghosts that escape and mingle like cigarette smoke with my tongue pressed into yours above and between us? where would you place your feet when you made tiny, uneven movements like a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-the-other-in-your-mouth, two-timing dancer balanced on rope but confident without a net? would you wear your red heels and dance in the woods? would you, could you, cold-cock me for lying when the evidence is smeared bloodily across our bodies? some of them want to abuse you, but some of them want to be abused. i just want to use you. i just want to know what's inside you.
i rattle and hum, and you can too. a single night that sent me upside down and three worlds twisting like the three tongues that met on foreign grounds to taste salt and flesh, sweet and sour, and between lips and tongues are bliss and torture and sometimes the two aren't so far apart if your head is on straight and even when it's not. we were cosmonauts diving between the sheets and into the fiery wet limits of our own hedonism, like when i was a boy and would go swimming at the lake and would go right up to the edge, where the roped buoys kept us pinned and close, and i would quickly duck under and tread water on the outside, seeing how long i could go before the fear of being spotted and called to by my grandparents became too much and i retreated back into the synthetic arms. because we were all so close to overflowing and opportunists, i suppose, used and abused, because it can be so much fun to play the victim and to play the victor spoiling.
what you won't do, i will. i want to drag blades across my bare chest and suck the barrell of a shotgun. i want to feel the emptiest void and then fill it with all creation. i want to carry the music and images that i draw up so effortlessly in my dreams and right before i fall asleep into my consciousness complete. i want to not want anything at all.
now i'm home alone for the week, have about half a fifth of Jim Beam calling my name, and an insane amount of work i'm supposed to do [but won't] tonight, and no one to share any of it with.
oh, mary, mary, to be this young is oh so scary.