Lucid as London’s summer days

They didn’t tell me what life would be like. Their breasts spoke to me in riddles. I would stare and note their attributes: C cups with large, dark brown areolas; pendulous, creamy, pliable. Drooping fried eggs, goose skin nature and distinct self-scent. I thought these breasts were universal. The way they’re all supposed to be. I felt ashamed that mine were small, taut and pink that day. I should have retained that sense of shame.

Misty sun floating in through the spaces in the blinds, casting bright stripes on the door frame and wall and the stack of books with no bookshelf. I think you think that I don’t know what’s really going on here. I think you think that I think more of myself than I really do. I think you think that I am smarter than I really am. That I’m well-read, bred, noble. I think you think that I can do what I can’t. I think you think about me. I think I think. I think. I. Think. Too much.

Today I feel fucked. Like after sex when you’re too drunk to say no, but probably wouldn’t have said no anyway just to have a cock to crash on, a hand to hold, it’s all the same. Come on. Like you’ve never. Hurt, muscles sore, orifices splayed, but instead of the complete relaxation of release, you’re frustrated, closed up, shot dead.

Sacrifice clarity for poetry. Sacrifice poetry for sanity. Sacrifice sanity for love. Sacrifice love for a loss of loneliness.

So apparently my mind can still be attractive, even if the rest of me isn’t. There’s a thin line between passionate and psycho, which some straddle well and others piss on. Smell the hot urine running down your thighs.

The sun shines a bright, steaming light on my insecurities, highlighting my shortcomings for you all. Get me the fucking picnic basket. I was born in that ultraviolet stream and I tan like you’ve never known.