Sleeve

No fathomless entity. Just plain old poison lust. The dust up my nose. Faeces in my cuts. Fumes in my lungs. A friend juggled a blancmange. Ended up sobbing, covered in pink slime. His cigarette soaked with cheaply sweetened, deformed mucus. I stared at him and kicked a stone at a little bird, who watched us from a verge.
He asked why, I left him there; shamed, pitiful. Ruined.
They call it love. It becomes death. Resurrects itself as bitterness and collapses from old age and undernourishment,
My old lady used to warn me not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I can see her now, fists clenched, biting at the air with every consonant.
Useless whore. Now disintegrated in my memory to a creature smaller than a dung beetle.
A simple, razor thin synaptic heave. A fart from the past issuing bile into the present.
And they call it love.
I know no one and yet I’m head over heels for you. And you know it too. Look at my eyes.
Lost.
They have drunk you in so much they’ve become skewed. Perverted. Desperate.
When you leave, as you will, they will watch you walk away. And the pilot will warn the mouth not to echo the sentiments of the heart, worn snugly, gruesomely, upon the sleeve.

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