I don’t know where the words went, where they began or where they end. I know you whisk them into candy threads and my brain is struggling to vocalize those impish scenarios for the ink on your hand. Secrets slip so quickly out of my fingers lately, it’s a wonder they stay locked behind my teeth. You’re beautiful when you sleep.
In the meantime I am scraping by consistent & constantly relying on scratching this undying itch… ripping my skin to little wilted pieces. It’s stress. I’m a magnet for it but you’re the first and only thing in life where I’ve never had a single regret. Call it fate or divine, call it whatever you want as long as worlds combine. Pure manifestation, you’re the end of the assembly line like 3D printing, knocking them all back because I’m always drinking. You’d think I have an affair with black cherry instead of vous de droit, turned my heart into a bloom of passionfruit. Eight percent alcohol by volume. The color I spit in the shower is damn near the shade of one more new bruise.
Maybe my meantime is designed to be pleasurable painful. The real definition of fetishist. A real brutally honest assessment for the hell of it.
–LM
The Lexicon 