if it were my tits, I could just wipe it off,
and i heard that the protiens are good for your face, so I wouldn’t have even been that mad.
but why did you have to come in my hair?
your molten little soldiers, singing their swan song in my mane
and as you laid there, sleeping off the great toll the past four minutes of pleasure had taken on you,
i swear i can feel them squirming,
damn this congealing mass on the side of my head.
my wild mermaid hair was at the peak of insanity,
but the wavy stands got sucked into the whirlpool of remorse.
i never even got off.
well, you looked pretty fucking pleased with yourself.
in the morning
i forced myself on the packed 57 bus back to kenmore square,
and the metallic, sweaty scent seeped from my locks,
like canned ocean air mixed with drunken lust.
i look around
and everyone knows,
because your few (and i mean few) moments of pleasure
formed a clump of regret that screamed in neon lights
I’M A WHORE
but i guess that’s what happens when you drink tequilla on saint patrick’s day
