monksta

waterslide, waterslide, you
just KEEP fucking yelling at me,
always screaming, burning,
yelling, about that.

I never understood a fascination with
falling rapidly
spraying in the face
a big splash
gurgling for air
and a surface to nothing

you just... you just don't see what
holds me under.

I'm sitting here, revisiting your
deep dark words
that howled from the wind
through fire and brimstone,
as the scooter sped away,
you strapped to his back,

"it just was a good time,
but i'm moving on."

I punched a wall that night,
and the plaster streamed into
my knuckles faster than the blood,
mixing into some strawberry vanilla
desert that was beyond eating.

Swallow your food, darling,
that's what I say now.
Looking out through windows, with some
really hot coffee burning my throat,
keeping me feeling alive,
as I write down your insults
into poetry, as I write down our
experience into words, as I tear
your heart apart on pages
you will never see

"I'm moving on" is stapled to
my frontal lobe, and
I'm still trying to get my feet
to accept it.