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listening to a mixtape my girlfriend made me smoking my least favorite kind of cigarettes i was so angry when you went away for the third time and even more so that i couldn't explain to anyone why you have returned again and in a sick way i miss lying drunk on my floor smoking thin cigars i miss wanting to die because it was something to think about and i had someone to blame it on. it's a spiritual sort of anger, a pure and real feeling now that i don't need the medicine i still can't orgasm & it hurts to see another disappointed, pretty face rising from between my legs it hurts to pretend that an old body is lying next to me in bed it hurts that i have no specific memories of making love to you just of cookie dough &your dad's shitty beer of looking over the pictures on your wall as you got dressed for bed of snarling through my drunken tears at your head on his neck of your slow lips parting to receive the smoke, his tongue superior to my own i used to scratch my face and hate you the day we decided to stop being friends i slumped into the couch and cried as my mom explained that nothing stays a certain way forever and the next day when i took the number sixty-three bus home and threw up in someone's gutter i promised myself that i would never ever let myself think anyone was beautiful again curled up in a hotel bathroom in madrid, drunk and wide-eyed i realized that if you asked me to slit my own throat i still would.
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