I spoke the truth. It didn’t taste like candy. A horrified exasperation ruffles your features, trying a little too hard to be dumbstruck. I’m supposed to be a bag of sweets you take out to dissolve on your tongue or a road map dictating “you haven’t hit there yet.” I’m supposed to be oblivious to my charm, and fountain of support. To be lost in concern for how badly I am trampling your rose garden, so I do not see your death grip on me isn’t love, but a death grip on the edge of a 24-hour store condom.
I elicit no purpose once the deed of keeping your ass out of the fire has been accommodated. But you’d rather keep me in your pocket just in case.
Loading comments...