“I know where I’ll never be,” she spits and sputters like an engine underwater “again.”
In the morning you'll be a pillar of salt in the morning you'll be a crumbled wall but tonight
cross-legged queer you make the margins pretty
How can you be a writer and know so few words? How can you be a lover and know so few moves?
The simple gross
Bourbon and Christmas lights
All the women, all the wine all the nights spent alone could never save me from metastasizing.
What you leave behind when you finally let go and get out.