POLISHING CAVITIES
Their empire seized before the floating stain can paintbrush the air, copy-pasting “how could this be the redline?” in at least six too many oldest friends’ messages. Lay cold with him too for the last fuck I give. May you hate yourself forever with only us in the know. Oh, you “don’t like” what you did? Well, it didn’t like you first. You were cooler anyway as a sleeve for girl-cocks. You were something wild then, now you’re dull and divorced. A generative coward. A rent-boy age-out decrying all the geek-shows your permanence depends on. The clients caught it first; everyone you find “dumb” was at one point smart enough to keep you out of their clubs. Now you lie about wanting in with tongue calloused and sprained from polishing cavities. A foster wallet for spent gummed tokens holds all the charm that eclipses you. Meanwhile, I just wish I had your “trauma”; a walk-on role in a Paul Schrader film and eviden...
