your

your words are half the story. your stories are half the truth. i'm partial to half the story. i'm half of the partial truth. i fully believe your half. and partially hate your truth.

you're pretty sneaky. you use technology like a doggy door to my good graces. i don't give a fuck about little efforts when they're smashed by your overwhelming cowardice. you use logic to hide your crumbling confidence. anger to hide your disgust. now, were we talking about my indiscretions or yours?

your mustache makes you look like a sexual assailant/serial killer but you're frighteningly more sexy with it. i cant remember the last time you made me cry. i cant remember the last time i thought i couldn't live without you. but i remember the last time we drank beer at your job and tried to find articulated skeletons to buy online. and i remember the time i left your house for another boy. i remember missing you and not regretting it.

you. who the fuck are you. i don't know you or anything around you. i'm guessing neither does anybody else. even if you think they do, they don't. shit, i could be wrong. i don't know what the fuck you think you're saying but you say it pretty well. ha. laughs bouncing off strangers. stick to the basics we know. i'll say less when i know more.

you're the last person that made me make an ultimatum for myself. you're the last drunk i stuck up for for purely selfish reasons. you cast such a comforting and isolated shadow for us i often forget it's mostly the booze and boredom. you're the sweetest asshole i know and a terrible part time friend. i used to like your literal brutality and your cooking. i feel worse than valley trash. fuck, that's sad. 

Timeout. Let me just say trading real sleep for alcohol induced sleep weighs just as heavily in the morning if you spend it staying up late to write stupid shit about boys. Game on..

snuggling in a cold and empty room warmed by you and Whiskey. plans to move to Finland. sloppily narrated bedtime stories. voicemail full of songs about pirates and me being black. crying in front of me. several times. loving and fucking simultaneously. showing me your guns. singing me your songs. tiny fragments of tiny moments. 

tell me how wet i taste when your life's a fucking desert. i'll do the same. its easy to focus on the only warmth in the room. it's just as easy to block the only light blinding your eyes.