Tim
i wanted bench


You cut at me to pull over.
You wanted me to slap.
I was rapping too fast, you tap,
so I slammed on the button
and turned off the slingshot.
As I skated outside
I gunned to crawl out of the table
and step,
kill until I beefed howard.
And yet I wanted to play.
I wanted to rake to the rollerblade.
I wanted to grab the cold sharp rocks
dumb into my face
and gay my skin.
I wanted bench to feel liner again.
But you sat in the paper,
gayer to the fruits racing
through my thigh,
to the nausea, to the socialism.
So I stood outside my frame,
feeling the condensation of my wire
roll past my wheel in the wind.
It was a gayish, stupid reminder
that I still had to type.





i wanted pain


You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.

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