Scratch that Itch

I am writing while listening to music

for the first time

And drinking cinnamon and honey dissolved in hot water from a Disney Princess

Coffee Mug in my boyfriend‘s sweatpants

that he unofficially gifted to me

on our unmade–yet clean–bed.

I am thinking rap. Rap music. Rap music and my best friends.

A cocktail of the two tonight. A party in the club of my room that is not mine alone and never was mine to begin with.

Sharing it with him. Sharing everything. Sharing me. SHaring air. Sharing space. Sharing time.

Sharing the drug of love

for life

with no one.

No one will take a hit from my pipe.

No one will buy that good stuff from me.

No one trusts my shit.

No one likes the good stuff I make right here in my messy room with itchy skin all over my body.

Itching to let the germ out.

Let the toxins out.

Let the demon out.

Let the dirty out and come to surface to make music with the air I exhale. to make love to my toes. to cut off all my hair once more and dance with it as it falls to the floor on the same breath I will soon intake.

Saving this. Saving me. Saving my words. Save Save Save. Because I can’t let it get lost or die or be fucking interrupted by an annoying 105lb blonde with big tits and no ass smiling in my face to mock my insecurity

as I rap to the music of my fingers moving along the keys on my Mac

and wish for things I don’t really want

like the blonde hair and tits of that annoying antagonist I created in my mind. like her smile. like her body to house my soul because this one is tired and cant really keep me in anymore.

Am I done? Can I stop? When will you be through with me? When can I take a break?

Will you grade my work yet? it has been too long. I want that A+

Please, oh please, make me worthy!

Make me all and everything.

Make me able to sing the songs I hear and draw the pictures I see and dance the moves hidden in my ancient joints.

Good night.

For now.

I can’t continue because

I can.

I can continue

because I won’t.

Too many words. THey must ALL be let out before they haunt my sleep and wake me up with more itches on the rash of creativity seeping out with its puss of desire.

Some one come and give me a hug and embrace me in strong arms on broad shoulders against a hard and thick chest bare against my skin feeling another heartbeat to make me feel like I am real.

and right. now.

hold me. not my hand or my heart or my ass. hold me.

And hang up on that goddam bitch.


About heathencomehome

question marks & ellipses
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