phantasmagoria

Feeling toothy and playful, letting it sink in that I’ve reeled in a good one with a kind laugh and a tolerable mouth taste and a sweet, doleful look in his eyes which I’ve seen in every boy I’ve ever liked. He’s regretfully not so crazy, but he sort of envelops my mania and only talks sweetly to me. He only touches me once I’ve touched him first. He only confuses me that I could possibly be worthy of him. He’s disgusting too. My disgusted thoughts of him are disgusted thoughts of myself. I’m twisting my knees and they’re cracking. The cold is coming between two layers of my epidermis. Oh what did I think of today and forget? What bullshit can I think up now that I’m happy? The outside of my skin is hot but all scared and cold. Whatever revving that’s kicking up outside should stop or else they’ll have my full attention. Strange telephone alerts get in from the outside and make us seem hooked up—like we’re in that place where you can’t use words anymore and the fallout shelters have finally dropped. Shelter can be a wretched thing cause where else can you find that you over-love or sleepwalk or need to get high? And they’re all cracking me up, wretched girls and women. 

So what if you love? Take it and mount it on a spike because they’ll inevitably see you open your mouth and hate the sonorous wounds which exit it. Laugh and make your way to the kitchen, exit the house because she’s thinking about you right now while you’re there. Quick, run now because pots and pans are falling off hooks as we speak, and soon the shingles will be peeled back with pointed gusts of wind and what will you do then? The home is lovely but it has to go. The home might be nice but its learning about your over-love.