I say we hate sex, the act is gross is enough in every bathroom stall in neighborhoods neither of us can afford. doesn’t it feel empty? the passing by like dandelion fluff it lasts forever but ends quickly with regret. What was the point? To ingest fear of illness to have ugly sheets scared with memories of what coulda been or have beens or what was because love isn’t a factor because it isn’t real it’s chemical that fades as fast as the act itself. If I was a fucking gorgeous ballerina I would dip and bend for anyone that looked at me though I never had talent to sit up right or dine at a dinner table next to rich men that needed to see me contort. I was the untalented bathroom archetype who gets stolen and returned showered and loved then left for the rib cage beauty who was born real,
