My work life has become all consuming.
I know that it will end, somewhere between mental exhaustion and the murder of my laptop, but right now it feels as though I am on an endless loop of number crunching and rationed fast food. I haven't been running. I haven't been sleeping. I don't remember the last time I rolled around in bed in blissful glee. My body is aching with the need to stretch and shake off this adamant indifference. I stumble around blindly trying to find my reading glasses before embarrassingly realising that they are perched upon my nose. I am littered with dark bruises from tired induced spatial unawareness. I haven't written a story or a poem or a haiku or a shopping list in what seems like a century, words building up in my head like a giant wobbling Jenga. Urgh. Bring me thy blanket and thy Netflix, for art thou fucking knackered.
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I lie next to you, freshly fucked, mascara ruined, lips sore, skin touching skin, surrounded by the pages of writing that you swept off my desk, my stories, my words, such pretty words, wrapped around us like a lustful silk.
The rush of cold air biting at my nakedness as you lean away, finding the little bottle of ink that had fallen to the floor when you unbuttoned my filthy pleasure, and you coat your thumb pad in the blackest of inks before pressing it firmly against my hip bone, the concentration on your face a melody of intensity and pure sex, marking me with your fingerprint. How utterly fucking romantic, I thought, right before I remember writing this exact scene. Right before remembering that you are the man that I created with my pretty words. Fall in love? No need
when you can stabs one's own heart et ressent le même. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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