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Pretending to draw landscapes while you stand in front of me, waving your hands around and letting everyone know you're writing a new poem. You're mediocre at best, mostly plagiarizing your idols, pinning me down with those big Irish arms and hands. You call them lover's hands, and I wonder if it was love you felt when they were wrapped around the necks of the two women you killed, when you snapped their thin necks like cruel pencils. Yes, I suppose it was love you were overwhelmed with when you hung their lifeless bodies from the beams in the ceiling and extended those hands, those lover's hands to receive your payment from a coughing Italian who is always patting your daddy on the back. And it is these hands that hold down my squirming grey wrists as you grind your dick into my motionless lifeless dry cunt through my levi's as you kiss quickly my neck and breasts and I just stare straight into your ceiling hearing nothing but the smacking of your cold hard mouth in the midst of the silence of death. She's high on amphetamines with a cigarette dangling from her imitation Angelina lips, digging anxiously through her fifty-five dollar purse. She looks up and asks if I have a cig. No, but you do. Shit, she says, noticing what's in her mouth and lets out a grotesque snort, eyes dilating wildly. She lights it and takes a long drag, looking somewhere far away over my shoulder and saying slowly through the smoke that drugs are really expensive. I'm a lonely painter. I live in a box of paints. She likes to kiss me all over and when she's done she feels guilty because she's twenty-two. She goes to get me another beer. A boy who knows what to do with his guitar. It was worth the sweat and being sucked beneath the all-stars of hipsters in ironic seventies glasses and thrice tees. A boy with a GIRLS. FREE KISSES sign. His lips were dry and tasted like tequila. You've switched to regular cigarettes. You keep telling me I turned into Lauren. I swear I didn't. I even wrote it-- "does the victim become the oppressor." underneath it a boy I used to kiss two days a week wrote "fo sheezy." Besides, I say. I never left you for a boy. You put on your hat and turn away from me.
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