14 revolutions of Terra swinging gravely about Sol.
Two weeks since we decided the make-up sex was not worth the fights.
In that time I:
-explored stretched mentality in a nestled cabin amongst brethren
-wielded bong and bottle valiantly against sobriety night after excruciatingly long night
-and, during one such battle, recruited a female compatriot to stave off thought; banishing it with intimate touch.
Two weeks later.
I am in your room,
feeling the dead claw at their graves in my chest.
I tell you I slept with her.
Except I don’t just tell.
I twist my words with labile veracity,
concluding that because you hurt me,
because you excommunicated me,
because I could no longer worship at your altar,
I HAD NO CHOICE
but to pay homage between someone else’s thighs.
YOU did this, I twist.
You have words, but all they say is hurt.
I have words, but all they are is ash in too many mouths.
I have kissed so many mouths and by God,
no one kisses me like you do.
We will kiss again, much later, but I will always taste the ash.
Two weeks you say.
You couldn’t go two weeks.
You crumble as I rise to leave.
I do not trust myself to say anymore twists.
You tell me,
“I will never trust you again.”