Jarring Ends.

Trickle by trickle it falls into grooves and it slides, inside and out, dribbling secrets. I am undone these days, watching things fall and laughter seize my insides. Change to a level, is permissible and acceptable. But sometimes it’s random, pendulums between blacks and reds.

The idea of gore puts him in frenzy, you can see the spit gathering at the corners of his dry, curled lips as he speaks of brains falling out and oozing with studio-crusted blood. His hands move in and out, rubbing his thighs, folding and unfolding. It is difficult to believe he is nineteen, or any age at all. You can see the glint in his eyes and you wonder if things really go wrong in people’s heads. The scenes play in your head with each word he says. He spins you in his tales of brutal rape, abusive deaths and brains oozing out. She laughs for him, loud and claustrophobicizing. It’s empty and loud, fake enough to cover her reality in shrouds and shrouds of tissue-for-the-lonely for her entire life. In bed she probably cries, whining he doesn’t understand her.

We sit together and watch the sun set. Comfortable silences when the tremors stop and the laughter pauses and the gore dies. The curtains fall but it kills me there never is an appropriate end. I am honestly tired of serrated ends to relationships and comprehension.

.

Fool

Tiny specks cloud my vision. It’s the possibility of moist, vacant dreams of horrifying sounds and beautiful voices. He bites onto those big, bruised, cigarette-abused lips and gives a grin-sly and inviting. I know I have to touch them to make sure they are real.

Being inches away sometimes is difficult. I need to smell him-repugnant and alcoholic in breath and adorable and crazy in the eyes. I feel like a fifteen year old knocked up future pop tart.

Don’t start laughing. I’m not clown enough to not cry.

...what the hell, never was a baritone till you stepped in...