I looked at her and knew
That she looked better than you
I asked for a Ménage à trois
You told me to play with my bois
My balls were left quite blue
You lived in my head as much as you did in your own. We never got in each other’s way. Being in sync made us believe in magic. Sometimes I catch you in my head and I hope it’s real and I hope it makes you smile.
It might have worked out. We blamed immaturity but we were still growing up together. There was distance and a few hearts to break, but we wanted to do this.
We were afraid and it will always be a regret.
We never tried but we should have.
Everyone blinked at once except for those being brought into his kingdom. To the others they disappeared and the world was in chaos. There was confusion. Almost all Monks, munis, and bhikkhus were gone. Some billionaires and a good amount of atheists were taken. Few politicians and no televangelist saw the glory of god. There was debate about it. Philosophy became the soul of the people and central to all nations.
Everything became calm and good.
A few generations later, it was all a myth and greed again became first nature.
I hear it’s easy to smile when you’re the answer to everyone’s problems. I wouldn’t know much about that. See, I tend to be the cause of other people’s troubles. I’ve been in bar fights, taken joy rides, and screwed every mother, sister, girlfriend, best friend, cousin wife and daughter in this town. If it has two legs, tits and been in this town for more than ten days I’ve fucked it. And that makes it pretty hard not to smile.
He stole her heart like teenagers steal wristbands from Hot Topic. He liked the way she looked and thought she’d look better on him. She kissed him because it felt natural. He touched her because true love never waits. She wore the shame on her mother’s face and he put her purity ring with the others.
Little drops of rain ripple in the seas of greater problems.
Raising the boat of man closer to the gods.
Making a short trip for the ghosts looking for their allegiances.
Damned to the salt or damned to the water?
Both are the sea and both are tears.
The bright lights are not gods, just money burning through the skies, in the battles of man.
No one really writes any more either its too bland from fear of mockery or too wordy to show off their intellectual dick size. At least thats what I thought going through years of creative writing classes. I still hate anyone who shows of things half-assed or toiled over and try to nullify critiques by saying, “I wrote it in like ten minutes”.
“I really like this, I can see you worked on this”
“Really? I wrote it in like ten minutes”
“But the other piece you brought in could use some editing”
“Well, I wrote it in like ten minutes”
Every person I met in these classes wanted to be famous. They wanted to be tortured and they wanted to be better than everyone else. I did the same stuff and I’m glad I did. Being a fake and hating myself for it may have stopped me for a while but it changed me for the better.
No one will ever see anything I write in ten-fucking-minutes anymore.
I’m a writer. I’m not an inspired wordsmith pulling greatness from the heavens so the common people may see just a glimpse of what I can.
I don’t pretend anymore that my art just happens. This is work and I’m proud of it.
I love every part of you that takes a bit of me. Feeling your flesh stretch over my tip, down to the heel, slamming against the bolster. My tools are a part of me. This knife is me and I’m your last lover. We don’t even know each other’s names. I’ll know yours tomorrow. You’ll be famous in the papers. You look so different. Why did I pick you? They won’t even look at the date. They’ll scratch their heads while I look at the new girl on my wall.
“I will murder you like your mom should have months before you were born”
She paused not because she was offended by this insult or threat or whatever this man was failing at doing. She paused because her first thought was to debate the man about whether or not abortion was murder. This would have just made his face redder something she’d prefer to do with her hands.
English wasn’t his first language and this wasn’t him. His anger was built slowly over the years in his store, it stayed there at night to greet him in the morning bigger and well rested. Some days he liked the anger more than the people. These kids who rarely went to high school but never left it either. More like children than adults. This girl was not one of them, it shamed him to have yelled at her like this. He wanted to take it back. It almost felt like he could. She hadn’t reacted yet.
He tried to apologize but she reacted too soon.
“Fuck you”
She walked away thinking he was one of those people he hated.
I put my lips on the bottle until it felt like the last time I kissed you, sloppy, cold, and purely hedonistic. Why do we do this? We know where to touch and how long to let the body beg for it. There’s no love in it. We can stop ourselves or each other. We don’t cuddle, we collapse. You go to clean up, come back dressed and go back to him smelling like my bed.
For sale: Purity ring. Tequila shots.
Glossed strips of flesh
Young, some say too young
Love doesn’t know age
Lust only knows brushes of bodies and the smell of hair
I’m about to do a real bad thing
It makes my smirk sharper
She’ll let me
Beg me
Thank me
Eventually leave me
Hate me
She’ll want the lights off
He wont understand because she’s beautiful
He’ll love the things taught her
But he will never be her daddy
Love will make you do crazy shit it’ll make you lie to keep someone happy now, telling them forever when it’s really just till stuff works out with another girl.
Sometime later, more than days less than weeks.
I don’t write for her. I don’t write because of her. She isn’t a muse. I write because I enjoy it and because I can be proud of it.