You don’t, you were drunk
Just can’t believe myself
I hoped words could fight you off
Clearly deluded by the drinks
Imagined I was stronger than you
But you wore me down, now I live with it.
Rip me apart
tear it all down
and look what you’ve found!
s o m e s c r a p m e t a l
MACHINERY, COGS, TURNING TWISTING
don’t be afraid,
it’s only my heart
Hold in your hand gently please,
don’t mind me bleeding out in front of you.
HOW COULD IT BE SO DELICIOUSLY SWEEEEEET
rip me apart…
tear me all out…
and love what you’ve found –
[voice drops to a whisper]
my scrap metal
I wanna look cool for you, so Ill smoke this cigarette
since teens dying from cancer is the new Twilight.
Why don’t we do some drugs too
since I’m not done poisoning my body yet?
let’s date and get married and have babies and die and go to hell together
since we’re gonna do a lot of premarital frickle frackle
and heaven won’t take the philanderers
since Jesus was a virgin or something like that.
She traipses along the Utah sidewalks at dawn
a purse slung across her chest
and a gaggle of children between her legs,
studying high school boys in an odd, pedophilic way
that rather suits her homely Mormon disposition.
as she imagines the sins she’d commit with them,
dense fog rolls in, and with it,
an unknown silver Volvo.
the woman stops and looks at the car curiously,
trying for a moment to imagine a sexy teenager driving it
instead of its current passenger, an aging businessperson
the woman inches closer to the car,
and the car, in return, reverses away from the creepy woman.
pathetically, the woman drops to her knees,
ignoring the children biting at her ankles.
a child shrieks, and the car floors away.
“how long have you been seventeen?”
says the woman to herself,
as she is left behind in a cloud of exhaust.
When I was a young gay
my mom hated me
my intention remains a mystery to this day
I dyed my hair with kool aid
fighting for my right to party
fighting for Sparta
each strand was black
a color I strived to bleach
loreal would not take me
and manic panic was my only solace
fashion got the better of me
consumed with the basic urge to change my hair color
I did the thing
I went to the salon
it was around mid day
the busiest time at supercuts
when I spied a chair manned by the most ombre’d hair
Shirley was her name
and she had the most awful queens accent I’ve heard in years.
approaching the counter, my eyebrows twitched
and I realized it was time to get them threaded.
A voice cried out
immediately I jumped back
startled and filled with terror at the sight before me.
my eyes, I questioned, were they failing me?
in front of me stood a drag queen named Biblegirl666
But her hair was gone
All that remained was a wig cap and falsies.
in her hand was a weave.
and she was holding it out to me.
greedily, I took it from her and clipped it in.
when I looked back to thank her,
I saw that her well manicured hand was extended closer to me,
waiting for me to pay.
So I have an issue…called the side mullet. That’s what happens when you don’t maintain your undercut. I shaved the left side of my head in July down to a 2 and now it’s about four inches long. Great, right? I mean, I’m trying to grow my hair out, so yes, four inches is great indeed. But like, not when the rest of my hair is nine inches long. Because now I look like a confused hockey player circa 1994.
So ATM I’m working on a novel/rap/epic poem about this vampire chick who eats fuckboys. You know what a fuckboy is, right? a fuckboy is basically a guy who pretends to be into a girl and goes out of his way to be “interested” just to get laid. Fuck. Boy. So anyways, this succubus goes after fuckboys as a metaphor for destroying the patriarchy. In the meantime, she’s starting a coven of succubi by sleeping with girls and showing them The Way to destroying men. It’s great. It’s gonna be so great. I just have to stick with the idea and not get tired of it/not let my attention span divert me elsewhere.