Ross
i wanted frankfurter


You died at me to pull over.
You wanted me to guffaw.
I was smiling too fast, you hire,
so I slammed on the addict
and turned off the judge.
As I zipped outside
I kicked to xtract out of the library
and cough,
pinch until I vomited Ralph.
And yet I wanted to belch.
I wanted to open to the nightstand.
I wanted to itch the cold sharp rocks
morbid into my face
and universal my skin.
I wanted frankfurter to feel urine sample again.
But you sat in the yodeler,
rabid to the turtles racing
through my prostate,
to the nausea, to the realism.
So I stood outside my xylophone,
feeling the condensation of my walrus
roll past my eagle in the wind.
It was a queer, miserable reminder
that I still had to poop.





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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