here she blows

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[nycwriters]

I don't buy your politics. I can't hear what you're preaching at me. Spewing rhetoric, acid, blinded, ablutions. You're so passionate in what you believe, but when you reduce it -- it numbs the mind and opens the mouth -- it's just more of the same bullshit everyone else is screaming.

I can't hear you. I can't find it within myself to buy into your "no money down, 18 months of free credit" drop me on my ass beliefs. You have no clue who I am. Don't tell me you understand. You don't. You want everything so easy. Sometimes it can't be that way.

You don't understand $3.15. You don't understand roaches climbing out of the walls. You don't understand boots broken, mended with duct tape, no choice. Ramen for 12 straight weeks. You don't understand hitching up to Whistler, looking to find something -- anything -- and only finding jackals.

You say I was playing with my life. I say I was living it.

Fifteen minutes ago, the bathroom wall next to me was shaking and moaning. Black and purple grafitti bulging out at me in 3-D; the authors words beating to the rhythm of the stall next to me. Upstairs someone's screaming out anger on stage. Rage.

She screamed and he cursed. Stray needles on the ground seeping yellowish brown liquid. They felt nothing, they were just going through the motions. Prick. I already know her eyes. Haunted, gaunt, purplish hue underneath as if she'd been punched ... only she hadn't. Life had done this to her.

[Cicatrice]

There's no light low enough to fool me, there's no drink you can buy me that's strong enough or a perfect line you can say that will make you less hideous, so just jerk off on someone else.

You think I'm the answer to your problems? That ****ing me will make the doubts go away or the burning hot knowledge of failure recede? I'm just another body, you've already ****ed me a dozen times in your head and it didn't help then or you'd have lost that desperate look, the hunted hunter playing a little boy's war-game with your prick, so don't tell me I'm hot like it means something to you, it doesn't even mean anything to me.

As you're calling me a fox now, or when you'll call me a dyke in a couple minutes, I still win. I'm still the bitch who turned you down and the night you realize that you lost before you started; that's when you'll morph into a human. Until then every body you **** - every washed up **** who's standards are low enough for you - will be one more boost to keep you from hitting the rock bottom you so desprately need to know.

delete please

[noxxville]

It's simple; No. Not only no, but hell no. Never. As a matter of a fact, if you ask me again, I will pull out your left femur and smack you across the face with it. No be gone. And tell the rest of those fools that I will not put my pants back on.

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[nycwriters]

Breathing steadily, the covers moving up and down, he watched her sleep. There was something in the line of her neck, the way her hair seemed to follow it down to the hollow of her collarbone.

How many times had they lay like this? Ten, twenty? It didn't seem to matter, he felt alive when he was next to her, and it was too often that he wasn't.

He caught himself running his hand down the length of her body, fractions above her skin, not really touching her. The bedsheets were tangled around her body, and a leg -- a long beautiful leg -- had found its way from underneath.

He stared at it for a moment as if putting to memory. Of course he compared it to other lovers' legs -- and they paled.

He sighed and got dressed quietly in the dark room. There were other demands to be met and he couldn't hide out here forever.

As he picked up his keys, he pulled out two $100 bills and left them on the nightstand table. He walked out the door, into the daylight, a different man.

delete

bad