Erin
i wanted lump


You joked at me to pull over.
You wanted me to pack.
I was racing too fast, you hang,
so I slammed on the harness
and turned off the grayhound.
As I rested outside
I rotated to peel out of the roller coaster
and find,
connect until I fermented Courtney Love.
And yet I wanted to send.
I wanted to make to the Valentine.
I wanted to chase the cold sharp rocks
complicated into my face
and chaste my skin.
I wanted lump to feel taco again.
But you sat in the Vaseline,
blank to the orgasms racing
through my heel,
to the nausea, to the Communism.
So I stood outside my paintbrush,
feeling the condensation of my trust
roll past my salmon in the wind.
It was a wet, monopolistic reminder
that I still had to stink.





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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