fuck the semen that you left in my bed to bleach little rivers in the indifferently blue sheets.
fuck you, fuck your haircut, i wish it were mine, i'm keeping this sweatshirt, because I don't hate you.
fuck you for assuming that you know ANYTHING. you have a face i want to punch. you have a voice i want to strangle and a body i want to fuck.
and a mind i want to fuck, so, so bad.
fuck you for staring at me as if i know what you are thinking. i don't. i just want to. and the more you stare, the more i want to, and the black smoke in me spreads like crude on naive waters.
fuck your little black jeans.
fuck you for assuming that i do not Know How It Feels To Be A Writer. i have been writing since i could write. fuck your drawl.
fuck you for wanting to fuck me so much. nothing is ever different. fuck you for perpetuating this.
fuck you for your wide-eyed pursuit, your innocence, your insistence, fuck you for the accompanying guilt injections.
fuck you for assuming that i am speaking about you, for assuming that i am in love with you, sad and unrequited and pathetic. fuck you for enjoying that notion. the funny thing - the astounding thing - is that it isn't even true.
fuck you for being good but not good enough, close but not close enough to what i want.
fuck you for getting what you want. fuck you and your hopeful love affair.
fuck you for witnessing my inarticulate ineptitude, my blind confusion and the bruises that ensue, fuck you for knowing i'm hurt, fuck you for your unusually perceptive way. fuck you for being in the room on the day i want not to exist.
coming home, wanting to sleep.
twenty seven thousand people i want to ignore in my fucking face.
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