The Sky in Your Lungs
Angry at you. Carried a life force inside wombs for you. Stupid motherfucker! Laconic, platonic, prosaic, and yet none of those things — these words are full of poetry, but you're just full of gunk and grime from years of cocaine and red wine. I sat in the passenger seat and told you the truth: "you're next to me but you're also inside of me". You grunted because you understood. Took four pink crosses to prove the truth. Ruthless!
Still to this day you resent me — hell sent me, you say. Sure. Sure thing. Straight from the fiery jaws, with claws on my paws, I clambered up. But you liked me first, pursued me for months before I said fine. Fine. Let's do cocaine and red wine. And plenty of nights ended in the same sticky mess, stolen t-shirts and comedowns heavy with... murder! Sometimes you used to lie and say, "I love you," and sometimes I'd lie back and say, "I don't love you too".
You decided to stick that dick 'tween my legs and the knife in my back, stuck it in until life eh-eh-elapsed! Twisted it in until my spine cccccrrrrrrr-acked! I'm glad I called you from that train, lied and said I'd give that child your name, said I'd keep it, keep it, keep it forever! Bitter the lemon, green the lime, sour with envy — fine! Rack up another fucking line.
Excerpts from the work, Conversations About Paradise.