bionicfemme

And so I sit around, waiting for a pizza to help fatten me up, rocking out to Lunatic Calm.

I think of the one woman I have loved and the most recent one that is more psychotic than her.

I think about the relationship between Natalie and I, the walks on the beach and the nights clubbing amidst drag queens and electric supernovas.

Charming and funny and erotic...I wonder where you are tonight. I wonder if you're sitting on your windowsill playing your bass, composing a song about something. Maybe cooking a big Italian dinner. Maybe combing your long hair near the mirror and putting it into a low ponytail.

That relationship, although it ended in crash and burn, was so well developed. I felt we could go anywhere and do anything. I would do anything to wake up next to you again or eat breakfast in bed with you. Or find the other woman and steal from her what makes her loveable. Do a backflip that brushes my boot against her lips and knocks her golden gift down to the ground along with a couple of teeth.

I'd pick it up and swallow it whole for you, love.

The ones in comparison are faded watercolors, paint by number. And number nine was the worst. Obnoxious, underaged upstart.

Like a body that hadn't grown breasts or hips, that time period spent with her always remained constant and unappealing.