This city is like a warm cunt after years of solitude.
“All cats are black in the night.”
& my father asked,”Is that whiskey?”, so I replied “Of course… I’m your daughter, aren’t I?”.
Fucking hell… I need all of this, right now.
This reminds me of how you get all cat-like and animalistic sometimes when I give you permission to touch yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in this position, but it looks so desperate and needy that it instantly reminded me of you.
Can’t believe what you’ve done to me…
Now raise your left hand from your head & look at it. See the lines defined where ancestors written rhymes? This is your story, it exists in the past & the future, it is who you will become and who you come from, & through the prickling pain we remain comfortably numb, in great depression light tunes we hum, with the goal of mental clarity, sanity in scarcity. I know the true ones like me are a rarity, even now i feel trouble communicating, I wanna float to the sky where my people waiting…
— Youtube comment.
Something else is hurting you — that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or whips & rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.
— Charles Bukowski
I love seeing marks on you. That one time that I accidentally bit your lips when we were eating crepes together left a mark that I couldn’t help looking over at with a bit of a wicked thrill that whole week.
I’ve said before that I love you in pain. The marks I leave you are like pain writ large on your skin in my handwriting. I want to inscribe entire poems, novels, vignettes into your flesh that speak to how deeply I love you.