it’s just saturday, i think
as the faucet in my brain screams,
vomiting scalding water (krovvy?)
and a smile falls from under your nose
how can i disappoint your formative breast?
the image of your swimming my icy river remain.
did your long exhalation start
with my head in your lap,
my terror leaking out of my eyes
like virgo trying to stifle a cough?
i know your name.
and my life has ended.
coincidence is so confusing.
where does love go after it drops out?
having been squezed like a novelty sponge?
it seems almost a sure thing that when i am most distressed and most emotional for whatever purpose or reason, my prose is horrible. i feel like this is a good example. i tend to think most of my prose is suckadocious, but i feel like i’m not even close with this stilted words, and as such, i become even more frustrated.
but keep trying! that’s what they say!
i’ll keep on it.