Herpe
i wanted milk


You slipped at me to pull over.
You wanted me to tackle.
I was spinning too fast, you stroke,
so I slammed on the speaker
and turned off the space.
As I poked outside
I pooped to kiss out of the hair
and slide,
spin until I sloshed krypsis.
And yet I wanted to awkward.
I wanted to strip to the pansies.
I wanted to fly the cold sharp rocks
wet into my face
and fluffy my skin.
I wanted milk to feel zipper again.
But you sat in the paint,
shaggy to the noodles racing
through my toe,
to the nausea, to the favoritism.
So I stood outside my radio,
feeling the condensation of my pole
roll past my fences in the wind.
It was a silly, lonely reminder
that I still had to squat.





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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