How time flies

I don’t like the way you make me feel.

I don’t like the way I am when you’re around.

I don’t like how I act because of what you say.

I don’t like what I think when you talk.

I don’t like what I’m becoming because of the way you’ve treated me for so long.

I don’t like who I am when I’m with you.

I don’t know what to do

but I do know

it’s been a long time

since I liked anything to do with you.

Good enough was never good enough

You were a piece of something special in a lumberjack shirt hiding the most lust worthy bust I had ever seen, and I threw it away because I’m really quite the idiot.

I got scared.  That’s the part I told you.  It’s not like it was a lie, it was the truth.  Someone barked and my head couldn’t keep focus.  The gun shot threw me off, which is stupid because things like that never throw me off.

What really did us in was me being unsure.  This may be the undercurrent in every fucked over relationship I’ve ever had.  I never know if I want to deal with another person all the time, every time.  If I commit to one person and I’m stuck with them will it all turn out the same anyway.

And I know where this is coming from.  Even if I never could put my finger on it before, you were the best example of it.  That relationship to end all relationships fucked me up.  I hate being the poster boy for commitment issues because it always seemed like bullshit to me, but here I am.  I’ve got commitment issues because when I was fully committed I felt like I was physically committed.  You suffered for that.  All of you did.

Now I only have our words and their bittersweet smiles.  You were always so fucking good to me and even when it was unequivocally one sided I never knew whether you were for me or against me because of my own bullshit.  You were always with me though.  Always on my side, no matter what.

But it’s been two years now since we last talked.  I don’t know where you are or how to get a hold of you.  I guess you’re as good as gone.  I’ll hope not but it’s not promising.  I’d at least hope to get to say thank you.  A chance to rectify a goodbye that shouldn’t have been.


Crude Love

I want to suck your face off.  The words aren’t poetic or sweet.  They don’t sing.  When you hear them leave my full lips to your delicate ears you aren’t inclined to tell me you love me or think we have a future together.  All you want to do is bite down on those lips and pull them into your mouth.  Suck the fullness right out and make me yelp in pain as you clench too hard.

Lock my head between your thighs and don’t stop ’til morning.  The words are suggestive and crude.  You know what I want.  You can see it in my eyes.  The fire crackling, nearing explosive.  My only purpose in life at this moment is to transfer this explosion from my lips to your hips.  The eye-rolling rhyme only meant for your knees to squeeze tighter along with your fist in my hair and my face given no room to breathe.

Lets make-out.  Lets rip each others clothes off.  Lets mark each others skin with our teeth and nails.  Lets fuck.

Give me the dripping, messy love that people are afraid to experience.  The kind of love that when you slide your hands in it your face screws up because the feeling is so thick and sticky you don’t think you’ll ever get it out.  Get it on my clothes and in my hair.  I want to feel you under my nails and between my teeth.  I want to know what your neck smells like when you sweat.

I don’t want to love you all the time like strawberries and sweet-scented fields of delicate flowers.  Commercial love doesn’t allow for the things I want to do to you.  Public view cannot handle the contortion of our bodies that run through my mind.  You are my raw intensity.  I am your unfiltered passion.  Lets mix our colors together and start painting.