ESOPHAGUS.

Is Tuesday night and you find yourself with an extremely gay looking dye-job sitting blankly in front of the computer. Si no te apreciara tanto, te daría un beso que te haría temblar. But you know what? Well, I don’t, I have no kisses or whatsoever for you. Is that ok sweety? In fact, I’ve been thinking you would look so good when dead. Frosted and light purple.

I have a massive headache and I want to throw-up. And then you just left me here in disguise, at your little brother’s birthday party. I don’t mind. I don’t need. Needing is for the weak. Needing is for the living and I’m all frosted and light purple shaded gone.
I don’t own my blamed patterns of classic revolt. Moon me to the floor, when you just get your mind on silly distractions, and I pour myself some more alcohol. It’s for numbing purposes, myself with dialogue when all is there is merely the convoluted piece of my bitter creative imagination you are.

Love my slides and wrist my loved darling.

I felt swallowed back you made me feel you liked me truly bad seeds in my mind.
How the fuck did you think I was gonna be ok? Where’s my stash of bones and velvet skinned elbows? Why did you manage to crawl inside old picture-book memories and leaky drops of cold esophagus collapse as you never materialize trust I became thinking you would. It’s all bullshit the voice said. It has always been. I never liked you anyways I told myself.

And my dye-job is a job, is a job, is a job. I’m half packed and I’m good, I’m gone. You see? Uh? You don’t.
I have 20 minutes of porn and a bed. I’m glamorous as fuck. And fucking rarely ever is.
I’ll get two packages of cigarettes, maybe some new flowers, the keys, and so much stuff I need to do. I’ll dive in my bathtub and harvest my vassels. I love you my shadow, and you’ll sleep in my bed tonight. I’m sorry you had to sleep in the corridor yesterday since Julieta was taking your place. I hope you were not too cold, I hope I was not light purple frosted anymore.