every whore is worthless;
except for their pain.
that’s worth something – to me.
it’s cold.
i drink tea i made.
i eat soup i made.
i sleep alone,
shadows painting monsters
on the ceiling;
with sirens wailing
their curses at me.
“No.” I’ll say it again,
“I don’t hate you.”
I just don’t like to fuck you.
you can say it in any language you want,
but I know she loves me not.
none of them; none of us;
my head hurts with dull precision
in the places I showed you
while we put your costume together –
guess what – I don’t want to know
just what it was that I missed
or how much fun it could have been.
I don’t even want to know you.
screaming at low volumes
