I could never fall asleep with a book on my chest. I have a hard enough time turning off my senses
“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.