But the gun always points in my direction.
You say you care, and yet the gushing blood from the wounds of our time are curdled around us.
You say hold on. And I do. Not because you ask. You never ask. You demand.
You say I make you do things.
The shattered pieces that refuse to be glued and the stains of war that can’t be removed demonstrate lust unfounded.
You mock my cries uncensored. My trembling lips and fiery eyes don’t move you. My messy disposition is the finalized bait for your scheduled consumption.
We stand in contention as the street lamps filter in as referees.
In the semi-darkness comes renewed desire to surrender the glazed disposition.
You say the night is almost over and the morning will save us.
You move closer to me and I’m ready. Your hands leap up and down and around.
I feel you wanting to burst.
I say this will be the end.