Every Last Drop

God I want him like lighting like eyes rolling I want him bad, bad, honey, like every trashy novel like every blue sky in unsophisticated and illogical ways to roll with him it's prehistoric need, neolithic, and that's even wrong, that's not even true. Oh, baby. Like tingles on the bottom of my feet, like stupid girls in poodle skirts oh honey the way they want the backhand hairy knuckles gonna grow and smack them, gonna grow up, gonna grow up like me. Fuck, I want to dance with you. I want to fuck you, who am I kidding, with all of me, with every inch just eat me, just cut a hole and suck it all out until I'm an empty little box, then fill me up again. I want to be your empty little box, honey, honey, whore. I am yours, your well-scented whore, like something you'd buy in a country with spice in its name, back in triple-digit times. I want to dance for you, baby, writhe, baby, moan. I wish I could say I never wanted to sink my teeth into a pair of undeserving lips this much with a straight face. Can I run my fingers through your hair, darling, can I can I can I before I go just touch you a little bit? Just with shaking fingertips and you would barely  have to feel them. Oh, honey. Oh, you're steaming up behind my ribcage already you're filling me up already from so far away you make my legs feel made-up and my lungs popped.

Regression

I wish I could write stories like I used to. Feeling the same way and longing and admitting that I was longing, jesus christ it's all missing. And it's all wrong. And the second after it comes out it all sounds cliche but why the hell do I think it's going to break?

This isn't writing but honesty doesn't sound any better. I want to be fifteen again thinking about your driveway and having hope like summer. I always saw your house in the rain because that's how it was when I came here and it felt the most whole. I couldn't eat, I remember, because my dad had said something to me that day and I think I was obvious because I was fourteen and obvious. It was only after fourteen that I really started dreaming about you and never stopped. Except now that it's harder to dream like that. But I can see it: after a summer hurricane, all green and gray and humid and wet and lush, the kind of air you'd run your fingers over if you could, and beautiful, beautiful, alone. I wanted to curl up on your back patio naked and smoke a cigarette even though you probably wouldn't want to do anything like that. I want to fuck in your rickety single bed and find out what you're putting on your bedroom walls. Even now. Even though you fed me but I could never have fed you. I would have tried.

It's pathetic and it will not help. But at least it feels a little like the summer.