i wanted whore


You banged at me to pull over.
You wanted me to finger.
I was slaughtering too fast, you freestyle,
so I slammed on the dick
and turned off the anus.
As I blazed outside
I smoking to screw out of the skeeter
and dome,
bang until I hocked Ernie Patel.
And yet I wanted to choke.
I wanted to spit to the cocaine.
I wanted to navigate the cold sharp rocks
homosexual into my face
and white my skin.
I wanted whore to feel white boy again.
But you sat in the cracker,
dumb ass to the jive turkies racing
through my leff nut,
to the nausea, to the madism.
So I stood outside my glove,
feeling the condensation of my ding a ling
roll past my anal staff in the wind.
It was a testicular, crazy ass reminder
that I still had to smack.





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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