The artist is the worst kind of whore, guarded but constantly and consistently eager to connect, to find someone to tell her secrets to, crying and fumbling, all humbling and shriveling, open and bleeding out but she never runs dry.
And I cry between your thighs every night. I thrust my scabs and scales into your palm and I beg of you to see these things, see the dirty and cheap me, the desperate and weak me, and not look away.
But so often you just think my scales are a sign that I am a snake in your grass, a needle in your arm, I am coming at you fast and chemical and addictive and you don't think I am worth the comedown.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment