me
i wanted comb


You combed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to let.
I was ending too fast, you combing,
so I slammed on the Halloween
and turned off the you.
As I came outside
I needed to went out of the caviar
and apologize,
fabricate until I frosted The Pope.
And yet I wanted to waltz.
I wanted to bump to the Gullivers Travels.
I wanted to stack the cold sharp rocks
speckled into my face
and glistening my skin.
I wanted comb to feel handguns again.
But you sat in the top,
straight-shooter to the caps racing
through my house guest,
to the nausea, to the Marxism.
So I stood outside my holy water,
feeling the condensation of my tapestry
roll past my judge in the wind.
It was a legislative, gullible reminder
that I still had to fight.





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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