With a head full of benadryl, my words are articulate, rehearsed. Starring in a play that has gone on one too few times in my past, yet so familiar I pass it off as deja vu. Roomie is being strangely generous, as if to apaolgize for rights we know were wrong...right? Affirmative. As if he doesn't know the words, can't grasp the concept of something deeper, so thrusts 4 cigarettes in my hand. I concur. Nod, "Thanks". "You're welcome to sleep in my bed, as always, I'll see you later. The radio is yours too."
I knaw at the half cooked, crunchy rice infront of me. Why? I'm not hungry. I just thirst for pleasure, in whatever form. Years ago it was beating myself up, physically and mentally. I longed for abuse from others too. Then I grew up a little. Let the chemicals abuse me. Kinky. A recipe for disaster, mingled types and subtypes of abuse for years, then all at once, gave up the ghost in me which wanted to be another man's play toy. Grew sick of it. Now I stand on my own two feet, heart still enslaved to the chemical king. I enjoy that sort of pleasure. One I will never willingly give up. Repent to right your wrongs, right? Negatory. There is no wrong in my method. Others may believe so, but it's that method that set me free from man. I control is still. Who's to say I won't and what's to come, but that is speculation and speculation alone.
Bread. Bread is the rock of life. The meat of paupers, hobos, and refugees.
Sparks fly, embers burn and ebb, dying in ashes, going up in smoke. exhale. Social smoker, although I shouldn't. Damn asthma. But right now, waiting for the benadryl to kick in and needing to occupy myself, it is what it is. **Whomp-ding** Text message. Acknowledgement of existance. Is that our bread nowadays? If you go one day without recieving a text, you are an epic failure. Out of the loop. fuck your loop right in the ear.
Awkward silence. Pause for thought. I loathe phone calls. If it were the right person, sure, but yet another stalker who wants my nuts? Thank you come again. Say something witty, fashionable. Sorry to burst your bubble baby but I don't follow expectations.
Come on. Who'da thought a hollowed out marker would save me from the likes of no toilet paper? Fevered, sweaty, clammy, orgasm. Sounds so glamorous. Thinking of the drag queen who openly is HIV Poz. His pleading eyes that bore into me, saying, I wish you knew what was behind this smile, as you smile back. His boyfriend, who is an ugly duckling. Does it take a flawed being to love another imperfect, flawed being? We're all scarred in some way. Most don't have tht wits to admit it though. Pride is their drug of choice. Pride and popularity. Drama. All the normal fixes they run to in need. I open myself to misinterpretation like a budding artist. In text, appearance, sex appeal. But I don't give two shits who takes what which way. Do as you will. I know what I mean, and that's all tha tmatters. Imagine if directions were like that, if the highways were just free to warp and bend, take us wherever we interpreted it to, without maps. We'd be a so much more free flowing spirit. But I haven't discerned if that's good or bad yet. I am cryptic so they say. Metaphoric. I strut my stuff with both middle fingers held high.
Carefully, deliberately, I slide into PJ pants and a hoodie. Craving the carress of its soft flannel...maybe I crave it like the love I don't have. Oh well. Stubborn people like me can't be choosers. I always wondered why I absolutely hate being cold...I guess its a thing I used to hate cause I was so deeply sad...the slightest negative stimulation would send me off the deep end. Been there, done that. I'm over it. Have fun with that. Please hold. I'm sorry. Say what? Freako. You keep me sane.
Another 3 benadryl? I want to. I crave delirium. Maybe I just crave pushing myself to see just how calm the new me can stay. I eat with my left hand, which I might as well be jacking off with the other. Such a mundane task. Life is what you make of it, I am a firm believer of that. Even something such as eating can be tainted with a twist. Maybe that's why we all started going anorexic, bulimic, and the like. Not that I am, now. Been there, done that.
I knaw at the half cooked, crunchy rice infront of me. Why? I'm not hungry. I just thirst for pleasure, in whatever form. Years ago it was beating myself up, physically and mentally. I longed for abuse from others too. Then I grew up a little. Let the chemicals abuse me. Kinky. A recipe for disaster, mingled types and subtypes of abuse for years, then all at once, gave up the ghost in me which wanted to be another man's play toy. Grew sick of it. Now I stand on my own two feet, heart still enslaved to the chemical king. I enjoy that sort of pleasure. One I will never willingly give up. Repent to right your wrongs, right? Negatory. There is no wrong in my method. Others may believe so, but it's that method that set me free from man. I control is still. Who's to say I won't and what's to come, but that is speculation and speculation alone.
Bread. Bread is the rock of life. The meat of paupers, hobos, and refugees.
Sparks fly, embers burn and ebb, dying in ashes, going up in smoke. exhale. Social smoker, although I shouldn't. Damn asthma. But right now, waiting for the benadryl to kick in and needing to occupy myself, it is what it is. **Whomp-ding** Text message. Acknowledgement of existance. Is that our bread nowadays? If you go one day without recieving a text, you are an epic failure. Out of the loop. fuck your loop right in the ear.
Awkward silence. Pause for thought. I loathe phone calls. If it were the right person, sure, but yet another stalker who wants my nuts? Thank you come again. Say something witty, fashionable. Sorry to burst your bubble baby but I don't follow expectations.
Come on. Who'da thought a hollowed out marker would save me from the likes of no toilet paper? Fevered, sweaty, clammy, orgasm. Sounds so glamorous. Thinking of the drag queen who openly is HIV Poz. His pleading eyes that bore into me, saying, I wish you knew what was behind this smile, as you smile back. His boyfriend, who is an ugly duckling. Does it take a flawed being to love another imperfect, flawed being? We're all scarred in some way. Most don't have tht wits to admit it though. Pride is their drug of choice. Pride and popularity. Drama. All the normal fixes they run to in need. I open myself to misinterpretation like a budding artist. In text, appearance, sex appeal. But I don't give two shits who takes what which way. Do as you will. I know what I mean, and that's all tha tmatters. Imagine if directions were like that, if the highways were just free to warp and bend, take us wherever we interpreted it to, without maps. We'd be a so much more free flowing spirit. But I haven't discerned if that's good or bad yet. I am cryptic so they say. Metaphoric. I strut my stuff with both middle fingers held high.
Carefully, deliberately, I slide into PJ pants and a hoodie. Craving the carress of its soft flannel...maybe I crave it like the love I don't have. Oh well. Stubborn people like me can't be choosers. I always wondered why I absolutely hate being cold...I guess its a thing I used to hate cause I was so deeply sad...the slightest negative stimulation would send me off the deep end. Been there, done that. I'm over it. Have fun with that. Please hold. I'm sorry. Say what? Freako. You keep me sane.
Another 3 benadryl? I want to. I crave delirium. Maybe I just crave pushing myself to see just how calm the new me can stay. I eat with my left hand, which I might as well be jacking off with the other. Such a mundane task. Life is what you make of it, I am a firm believer of that. Even something such as eating can be tainted with a twist. Maybe that's why we all started going anorexic, bulimic, and the like. Not that I am, now. Been there, done that.