dripping with ease and disuse
all the wrong words
make the right girl.
I scratch at skin worn away by sex and cigarettes
shoving quarters into a vending machine and waiting for the tinktink of my quarters
and the clunk of the candybar hitting the bottom
cloves make me angsty.
I'll wait for him to leave
then I'll do it again and again
and he knows... but that's okay,
it's better than listening to the pretentious writers who think
that they can both write and understand its meaning
He pretends he doesn't know
but you always knew, and you just ignored it all.
I like the clove smell
and the way he hates it
because my Sunday mornings
are just fucking great.