kortnee
You talk far too much about sex, it can be ridiculous and crude. You are immature seeming, young looking. Your light on the world is a dim one, it's sad. You think everything is hopeless, everything is invevitable. You hate people and the world...you hate yourself. However, I love you. However, I will always.
She tries to find it hiding under her old battered stuffed animals, the chest of toys in the attic, the old heirlooms of her grandmother. It's nowhere to be seen, but she some how doesn't mind.
She wouldn't stand a chance with those happy people.
Pets and hugs, her head heavy in my lap, her arms round my middle, her cheek against my shoulder, her sighing, her breathing, her squuezes and softness, her eyes squinting upward.
Her rush of affection.
Friends...more.
Rotted, brown, crumpled, hurt.
Roses that you put away with the trash.
They're there, under the rusted cans and rats.
They're still full of his love.
Madonna’s voice rings in my ears and I watch her fifty-year old muscles lift and stretch and ripple her skin. She’s still preforming even thought the eighties have come and gone with only a glimmer of hope that they will return. Like when you see girls wearing neon legwarmers and floral print.
She’s gotten old, hasn’t she? Dear Lord, she’s ancient.
I think, we are living in a material world. I am a material girl. And then I shut off the TV, I walk to my bed, I sleep.