I want her to love me. I want her skin in photo frames on my bedroom walls. I could dream again then, having my vice at my fingertips. When she smokes I want her high to be in my atmosphere where I can taste it. I could steal it off her lips and breath in her shame, the delicious harm I do accept. She is not poetic on her own and those she gives herself to will never remember her the way a poet can. I love her profanity and she brings my own to the front of my mouth and we swear into the night. But I never get to keep her. I never get to make her laugh for long. I hate myself for that. She entertains my desperation but I'm not what she's drawn to. It's too late to reinvent myself so I lose my identity all together. If she could only grow into her future advice she'd probably see me then. I, the sound alternative to bad choices, do solemnly swear to never let her be too young for me. An oath of hopeful folly becoming a lie in the revelation of inevitability. She'll never love me no matter how much I want her to. No matter how much I pay her to....
YOU ARE READING
SIDE PIECE
RandomAn offering of small tales laced with intrigue and delights. Sometimes I need an escape from topical poetry in the pursuit of more fantastical renderings. No rules, no boundaries, no truth in the lies. Yet, when you live in the lie everything inside...
