That shit comes straight back up.
Like too much pink lemonade and watermelon burnettes.
Call me graceless, but the fact of the matter is
I couldn’t care for the eloquence, the elegant words anymore.
I want them to be brutal and true and at last
exhausted, like me.
New Haven is yours. Take it, let me keep the West Haven strip and the hat and I’ll be ok.
Better, I mean. I’ll be better off.
I don’t let myself rid of you even when my eyes are closed.
In fact, that’s when you come back most vivid.
I want to let you go. Some part of me does and a lot of me tries.
It’s not a matter of choice at this point.
I see your fucking face and I kiss you on the goddamn lips and I can feel them on my skin and I know it’s not real
but for just a simple second it could be, you know?
Yet I wake up in mint and rosemary, on the left side of the bed.
I get it. I get that something’s are better to just turn away from
but goddamn, you’re different.
You are visceral.
And I’m fucking obsessive.
The pictures, the letters slit me open wide so I finally I tore them apart
How can I hear every word, see every image still?
It gets easier, I’ll tell you that much.
Some days I don’t even think of you.
Today though, like most, I cannot stop.
You were begging me to stay and I was begging you to leave and now-
It’s been too long for me to feel this way.
Graceless, my ass.