One-hundred and Sixty: Stop the Party

You’re you, naive and pure and you made a mistake.
You’re a whore. That slap should have been harder.
If I act like a martyr, you’ll fill yourself with guilt.
I hate you because you’re not a screw-up. Seven
years later and I never grew up. I know you’re
better than me but I am so bitter that I still don’t
know I want you. I never loved you. I always
loved you. You’re a seven-year bitch and you kick
me to the curb. I don’t mean anything to you anymore.

You’re a beautiful feisty light, an olive branch of art.
Our hearts would mesh well if you had one. You
are broken. You give your body so easily but there is
no glory. I don’t want it. I want to make you love me.
I make you make me make love to you. I wait with the
resistance of an iron curtain. You are a succubus but
I make you succumb to me. When you do I never let
you forget it. You adore me now. I like to break lines
and scream until my eyes are little red dots. I dance
in the sand and let you go home alone. I give you jewels
of the sea and then smash them. We fall away and then
rebuild us with different bricks. Now I scare you from
across the ocean. I admit that you weren’t half-bad.

You’re exciting at first. Your eyes narrow in mistrust
and you only give me little half-moon smiles. Just
by being away for a day, I forget your face. This is
what I tell you. I want to fuck you. I think I like you.
You don’t say a thing. I don’t know that usually your
words are birds that scatter hearts like seeds. Maybe
you’ve been hurt but I don’t really care. I don’t want to
know you. I just want to fuck you. You know this. I don’t
know that you know. You don’t even know that you know.
You crumple into yourself. Your eyes widen with hope.
I don’t like this. You are trying to please me. It’s boring.
You are too weak for me. No, I don’t care that you’re just
scared. Stand up to me. Make me chase you. No, I can’t
let you stand still until you’re ready to play. No I don’t think
that you might think you’re tired of being difficult. Be easy;
I’m lazy. I hurt you with a smile. I’m another token of
bad luck to add to the pile. I’m sorry. But you’ll thank me.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

2 thoughts on “One-hundred and Sixty: Stop the Party”

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