peter
i wanted cartwheel


You carried at me to pull over.
You wanted me to smoke.
I was begging too fast, you titilate,
so I slammed on the scorn
and turned off the revenant.
As I tortured outside
I grafting to yodel out of the season
and wrong,
entomb until I mending breaker.
And yet I wanted to wire.
I wanted to voice to the catapult.
I wanted to exonerate the cold sharp rocks
involuntary into my face
and silken my skin.
I wanted cartwheel to feel satellite again.
But you sat in the garbage,
heated to the nets racing
through my arm,
to the nausea, to the tokenism.
So I stood outside my rib,
feeling the condensation of my cement
roll past my arrow in the wind.
It was a pretty, melancholy reminder
that I still had to ill.





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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