There are times when I want to run to the cupboards. Grab a bottle. Upend it into my throat till I sputter and choke. Spilling harsh alcohol down my head and chest. Wipe my mouth on my arm, and throw the bottle out a window.
I love the sound of shattering glass.
There are times when I want to grab you by the hair. Scream in your face till you understand who I am. Burn the building down around you, so you know how much I love.
Fire is so romantic. Like consumption.
There are times when I want to fuck you in doorways. Rip each others clothes off because we are going to die any moment now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t die inside of you.
…..
I sit, huddled in a stairwell, smoking the last cigarette as I watch you sleep. I can see cars passing in the cold light of the predawn. Off on their way. To and From. I taste burning filter and flick it against the wall. The scatter of orange sparks a sharp contrast against the blue of your lips.
…..
Sometimes the desire to put my boot through something overwhelms me. I try to live as nonviolent as life as I can. Sometimes something primal switches on in my brain. Something dark and cruel. Something supremely masochistic.
Sometimes the easiest way to stop yourself from fighting is to realise that you’d walk away from it without a scratch anyway.
Not everyone fights to win, and it’s harder to lose than you might think.
…..
There is a cold in my fingers which makes it difficult to hold on to things. I exhale too long and have trouble catching my breath. Breathing is visible in this chill and I can’t always tell when the smoke becomes mere vapor.
The world is lit in sharp contrasts. Cold light from the sun, reflected via the moon. A distant streetlamp, which creates more shadow than illumination. Lighter flares, and cherry tips glowing in the background. I am reminded of ink paintings of the Muromachi period, as well as modern art-porn. Simple austerity paired side by side with a close up portrait of lips wrapped around cock.
Lonely as it is, I love this city.
Breathe 