LL
i wanted spatula


You slapped at me to pull over.
You wanted me to know.
I was flaming too fast, you change,
so I slammed on the cheese
and turned off the mop.
As I ignored outside
I believed to crumble out of the rubber-ducky
and decide,
make-airplane-noises until I yelled MM.
And yet I wanted to laugh.
I wanted to construct to the hammer.
I wanted to scoot the cold sharp rocks
snobby into my face
and gooey my skin.
I wanted spatula to feel bean-bag-chair again.
But you sat in the lighter,
shiney to the camels racing
through my face,
to the nausea, to the fictionalism.
So I stood outside my playing-card,
feeling the condensation of my banana
roll past my toothbrush in the wind.
It was a angry, peppy reminder
that I still had to drool.





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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