by Gary Gamza
I’m a peach spilling juice on all the wrong clothes. Every last pit smells of me. Potential a musk I can’t stomach. Even I tire of my words. Is it more tragic if I author my own disaster? Or less? And if I should plagarize? My mother’s been calling from different phones again, but at least she’s in touch, says she’s been getting good dick. Good for her. My last taste of dick was at the graveyard. Her flavor was thick. Simon’s said it liked me best as Schrodinger’s Pussy, under covers, my mouth my whole. My last girl only knocked at my door with her head. Anon wanted me to keep my door unlocked, my hole open, my head bedded, but I was scared of what I could not see coming. I’m full of compunction. Wholly contrite. I’m all out of touch. I’m split. I want you, I want you, I want you. I need you now as I’ve never needed you before. Am I coming on too strong? How much weaker need I be? It’s 8am, I must be puking now. I purge my guts on waking, read fortunes in bile, say it’s a good day. These actions speak for my selves. I’m always serving you empty promise on this silver tongue. As though I were rare. Is this thing still on? I don’t know who can hear me, but everyone’s watching. I warned you, I’m expanding (read: white girl still talking about manifesting destiny in 2020 like her desire isn’t a death sentence). Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
Gary Gamza is still living.